


Unwell

by only_more_love



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-25
Updated: 2008-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-06 00:15:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5395478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_more_love/pseuds/only_more_love
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yup, the mighty Temperance Brennan was sick. Takes place after Season 3, Episode 4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Give me pancakes

**Author's Note:** This takes place after Season 3, Episode 4 (The Secret in the Soil). There aren't any spoilers in this part, but there may be in future parts.

Don't worry, this story won't be very long, and it shouldn't take me long to complete it.

**Warning:** Here be pure, unadulterated fluff. Not a hairshirt in sight. If you don't like fluff, don't read this. You have been warned. And I'm sure this type of story has been done a million times, but I wanted to write it anyway. Hope you enjoy it, but if not, that's absolutely ok, too. Thanks for the lovely feedback you've left recently; I treasure it ALL. And if you're reading but not commenting, I hope I can entertain you even a little bit. The world can be a tough place to inhabit at times. I know fiction can provide an escape.

**Unwell**

Whistling cheerfully, Booth knocked on the door to Brennan's apartment. He was taking a chance, given that it was a Saturday morning. But Rebecca had Parker that weekend, and honestly, he was kinda bored. He'd hopped in his car, not sure where he was headed, and on impulse, wound up at Brennan's place.

He knocked again. Nothing. It would be just like her to be at the lab at 10:00 am on a Saturday instead of lazing around like a normal person. Still, it was worth another try. If she was around, he'd drag her to brunch. His stomach growled, and he looked down. He knocked again, this time pressing his ear against the door. There it was: a very faint shuffle.

With a frown, he straightened and knocked harder. What was taking her so long?

Just as he lifted his hand to knock again, the locks turned with a click and the door opened just a crack, allowing him to see absolutely nothing. "Go away, Booth," said the disembodied voice.

"Now now, Bones, is that any way to talk to your partner? Come on, let's go to brunch." He leaned against the doorframe and patted his stomach and sighed dramatically. "I need pancakes. Give me pancakes, or give me..." he shoved the door open and stepped inside, "...death," he said, trailing off as he took in Brennan's appearance. "Man, you look like hell, Bones."

Bloodshot, glassy eyes. Flushed cheeks. Puffy, pink nose. Normally neat hair pulled back in a messy ponytail; more of it hanging out of the elastic band than tucked in it. A ratty gray t-shirt and shorts that had clearly seen better days.

"Thank you for stating the obvious," she croaked. She shot him what he knew was supposed to be a withering glare, but which had the effect of making her look slightly demented instead because of her current state.

Yup, the mighty Temperance Brennan was sick.

"What are you doing here, Booth?" She raised a hand to her face and blew her nose, making a loud, honking sound.

"I wanted to take you to brunch, but you don't really look up to it."

She shook her head. "No brunch. If I even think about food, I'll..." Brennan paled and slapped a hand over her mouth. He watched, concerned, as she turned her back on him and lurched down the hallway. Without hesitating, he followed her.

The bathroom door stood slightly ajar; he could hear her throwing up. Then, nothing but the sound of her labored breathing. "If you come in here, I'll shoot you." The words came out so weak he doubted she could swat a fly at that moment.

Booth's lips twitched and for a split second, he paused. Then he shrugged, squared his shoulders, and prepared to meet his fate. He pushed the door open and eased into the bathroom. She was crouched on the floor in front of the toilet, clutching the sides with knuckles that had gone white. He remained silent and moved forward to kneel beside her as she retched again. He gathered her straggling hair in one hand and held it back from her face. With the other hand, he stroked her back, feeling the blade of her spine beneath the soft cotton.

As Brennan puked and he rubbed her back, Booth couldn't help but notice that she wasn't wearing a bra. His hand registered nothing but muscle and bone. Jackass. There she was, puking her guts out, and he was pondering her bralessness. Really classy.

Brennan trembled and Booth frowned; she really wasn't doing too well. "Ugh." She groaned and struggled to her feet, shaking his hands off. She turned on the tap and rinsed her mouth out with water before reaching for a green bottle of Listerine. When she had finished, she leaned her forearms on the counter. Their eyes met in the mirror. "I'm going to shoot you."

He smiled gently. "Sure, shoot me — just wait till you feel better."

"I'm fine, Booth. Just..." She waved her hand at the door. "...go. Please."

The last word tugged at him, telling him exactly how much she must hate letting anyone see her like that. Too bad. He wasn't just anyone. He couldn't, no he wouldn't, leave her alone like that.

"Sorry, Bones." He shrugged. "I'm really bored. Parker's with Rebecca, all my friends are busy, and right now there's nothing on tv but cartoons. So I guess you're stuck with me."

Brennan shook her head and sank to the floor again, knees drawn up to her chest and back against the cabinet. She sniffed and fumbled around on the floor. Ah, tissues. He spied the box on the counter and pressed one tissue into her hand. "Here you go."

After she'd blown her nose until it glowed as red as Rudolph's, Brennan tried to stand, making it as far as the edge of the bathtub, where she sat down with a thump and a world-weary sigh.

"How long have you been sick?"

"I'm not sick," she insisted.

"Did you get a flu shot?"

"Booth, if the vaccine strains and circulating strains aren't matched, they're not particularly effective at preventing influenza."

He sighed and rolled his eyes, hands on his hips. "I'll take that as a no." He crouched in front of her and placed the back of his hand first on her cheeks and then on her forehead. "You're on fire."

"Since the middle of the night," she said in a small voice that oddly enough, reminded him of Parker and made him want to give her a hug. If he wanted to live, he'd better restrain that particular impulse. "I woke up around 3:00 and couldn't get back to sleep."

Seeing that she'd exhausted her limited reserves of strength, he picked her up and carried her out of the bathroom and down the hall toward what he assumed was her bedroom.

"Booth?"

"Yeah, Bones?"

"I hate you."

Good. If she could muster up a little venom, things couldn't be that bad. "I know you do," he replied, tightening his arms around her.


	2. Every time she sneezes

Booth bit back a sigh when he stopped by the head of Brennan's bed. He eased her down onto the mattress, making a mental note to up the weights next time he lifted upper body at the gym. No more slacking. She was almost as tall as he was and heavier than she looked, thanks to her muscle. Of course, he'd never tell her that; she'd probably grab his gun and shoot him before the last words had left his mouth. Better not to push his luck. He was already on her shit list for coming by that morning.

He stifled a laugh and picked up her bunched up comforter, which lay in a sad heap on the floor. After he'd made sure it was tucked securely around her, he reached for the digital thermometer on her night-stand. "All right, Bones. Open up and say ahh."

"I'm not a child, Booth."

"I know. But sometimes you act like one."

"I do not."

"Do too."

"I think it's best that you leave now," she said, glaring at him.

"Ouch." He clutched a hand to his chest in mock pain. "You know, you're going to hurt my feelings if you keep trying to kick me out."

"Why are you still here, Booth? Is it so you can gloat over my pathetic state?"

"No, of course not." He shook his head. "I came to take you to brunch; I'm staying because you're sick. If you want me to go, you're going to have throw me out of here. So, the question is, do you really feel like getting out of bed and taking me on right now?" He really hoped she didn't say yes; he wasn't at his best without breakfast.

Brennan glowered at him, her red-rimmed eyes promising unheard of levels of pain once she'd recovered. That was just something he'd have to risk.

Finally, she sniffled and shook her head.

"Look," he said, consciously softening his tone, "you're not pathetic, Bones." He patted her shoulder. "You're just sick. It happens to everyone. All you need is some meds and a little rest."  _And a little TLC_ , he added silently. "Now, can we please take your temperature?"

She held her hand out to him in answer. He passed her the thermometer and perched on the very edge of her bed, waiting. When the thermometer beeped, he pulled it out of her mouth before she could take it. "101.6 degrees." He frowned and took in her flushed cheeks and glazed eyes. "What time did you last take some medicine?"

"I don't need medicine. I'm just going to go back to sleep for a little while, and I'm sure I'll feel fine when I wake up. I will not be cowed by mild congestion." She sounded very confident — until she sneezed.

"Bless you," he said, and handed her a tissue. "Don't forget puking and fever," he added helpfully. "You need to take some meds, Bones. Tylenol or Advil would be good."

"Can't you go bother someone else?"

The woman took independence to ridiculous new heights. He had to remind himself sometimes that she needed as much as anyone else did, maybe even more — she just wasn't used to having her needs met. "I could, but why would I, when I can just stay here and torture you instead? Admit it, you don't have any medicine."

She sighed in defeat. "The Tylenol is expired."

"You could have just..." he trailed off. He shook his head. "Never mind. No problem. I'll just run to the store and pick up some Tylenol for your fever and some ginger ale for your stomach."

"How do you know I don't already have ginger ale?"

"I've never seen you drink it."

"So? Just because you haven't seen me drink it doesn't mean I don't enjoy it on occasion."

"You're right," he said, gritting his teeth and willing himself to be patient and understanding. "Do you have any ginger ale?"

"No."

He rolled his eyes. "Ok, so I'll add that to the list. Can I borrow your key?" He hurried to explain. "That way I can lock up behind me, and you won't have to get up and let me back in."

"It's on the kitchen counter."

"Ok. I'll be back soon. Try to get some sleep." He stood and turned to leave the room.

"You don't know everything about me, Booth," she called out.

He paused in the doorway and looked at her over his shoulder. "I know. Just the things you think it's safe for me to know."

Something in her expression shifted a second before her glance slid away.

xx—xx—xx

When Booth got back from the store, he set the bags down in the kitchen and then searched them for the Tylenol and ginger ale. He poured a glass of the soda and carried it into Brennan's bedroom. "Hey, you awake?" he whispered.

She heaved a heavy sigh. "Unfortunately, yes."

Sunlight streamed in through the window; he pulled down the blinds, hoping it would help her sleep. As he helped her sit up in the bed, the comforter fell to her waist.  _I will not look at her chest. I will not look at her chest._

_Ok, I'm looking at her chest — but only for a second. Oh, I'm going straight to hell, aren't I?_

He pressed the two pills into her hands. "Here. These should bring your fever down and help you sleep. I got one of those multi-symptom things. And this—" he handed her the glass of ginger ale, "should help settle your stomach."

She took several sips of the soda, her hand trembling. He grabbed the glass from her before she could drop it. Weird. To see her so visibly weak was just weird. But he knew better than to comment. "I know you haven't eaten anything today. I think you should try a slice of toast. We can try soup later on. I know, I know, you're vegetarian. So chicken soup's out. We'll do vegetable. But what do you think about toast?"

"Ok."

"Just ok?"

"Ok, Booth, I will try eating a piece of toast. Is that better?"

"No, I mean, you're not going to give me a lecture on the anthropological significance of a man making a woman toast?"

There was a long pause during which he saw his life flash before his eyes.

"That hadn't occurred to me yet. I'm having difficulty...thinking." Her lips twitched upward in a tiny smile. "But now that you mention it..."

"All right. I think I'll just quit while I'm ahead." He raised his index finger. "One piece of toast, coming up."

xx—xx—xx

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, fiddling with her apartment key, and watched her eye the toast suspiciously. "I didn't poison it, if that's what you're thinking. Just eat it already."

She took one bite. Then another. "Are you just going to stand there and stare at me while I eat?"

He shrugged. "I already ate. Grabbed a Sausage McMuffin at McDonald's."

"Since you're clearly not leaving... You're not leaving, are you?"

"Nope. I stopped at my place and picked up some things so I can stay here tonight."

"I don't need a nurse, Booth."

"Good, 'cause me? Not a big fan of nurses." He scratched his chin. "Although, there was that one at the hospital after your refrigerator blew up. She was smokin' hot. And she brought me extra chocolate pudding." The memory brought a smile to his face.

"What are you going to do, Booth — annoy me into feeling better?"

He flashed her a grin. "Something like that."

"Well then, you might as well do it sitting down."

"Ok. I'll go get a chair from out front."

He caught the flicker of amusement in her eyes. "You can sit on the bed."

"Oh."

"Unless...That is, if you'd rather sit on a chair, well, then..." she trailed off, looking away and plucking at the comforter. Her cheeks turned noticeably redder.

It was his turn to be amused. "No. No, bed's fine." He took off his shoes and placed them neatly on the floor before lifting the corner of the comforter and carefully sliding underneath it.

She'd invited him into her bed. Not like  _that._  But still...

Minor technicality.

Brennan wiped her mouth and blew her nose before lying back down. Booth picked up the book that lay on top of the comforter. "No wonder you couldn't sleep," he said, his tone accusatory. "You were reading."

"No, I couldn't sleep, so I decided to read."

"Same difference."

He looked at the front of the book, but it was a hardback, and the cover was missing. He checked the spine. The Beach Alibi. Alison Kent. Neither the title nor the author seemed familiar, but he was glad she was reading something other than an anthropology journal for a change. How squinty could something with the word "beach" in the title be, after all?

Noticing him opening the book, Brennan grabbed for it. But he held it over his head and out of her reach. "Listen, if you want to read right now, I'll read to you. You don't want to strain your eyes." Parker liked it when Booth read to him; he always begged him to do the voices. Maybe it would help Brennan fall asleep.

Booth flipped to the page marked by an index card, cleared his throat, and began to read aloud. "She flexed her fingers once, twice, her gaze caught by the movement as if seeing his bare skin..." He trailed off, his eyes narrowing and then widening as he processed the next few sentences. Clearly he'd misunderstood the reason she'd grabbed for the book when she saw him holding it. He snapped the book shut. "Oh ho. Bones! I can't believe you're reading porn."

"It's  _not_  pornography. It's a romance novel." She huffed and rolled over onto her side. "And I'm reading it for research, not sexual gratification. My editor said some of my scenes need more...heat. She suggested this author."

"Sure, I get it. It's 'research,'" he said, raising his hands and making airquotes. "To _may_ to, to _mah_ to." He paused for a moment and let her be lulled by the silence, before he leaned down by her ear. "You read porn." He straightened, throwing back his head and laughing until his stomach hurt, ignoring Brennan's halfhearted jab to his shoulder. Finally, he wiped his eyes and settled down.

He wondered what ideas she had picked up from the book. The thought was strangely intriguing, and it made him shift uncomfortably on the bed.

Brennan groaned, recapturing his attention. She rolled onto her back and covered her eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"My head feels like there's someone inside, jumping up and down. Repeatedly." She groaned again, and he winced in sympathy. "I know that's not possible. But that's how it feels."

His laughing like a donkey probably hadn't helped. Instantly remorseful, he turned to face her and tugged her hand from her eyes. "Hey, it's going to take a little while for the Tylenol to kick in."

Brennan's eyes opened and she looked at him, breathing through her mouth, her forehead scrunched in pain. Releasing her hand, Booth let his right hand hover over her forehead. "What are you doing?"

"I'm about to massage your forehead. But only if you promise not to hit me."

She frowned as if she were considering his words. "All right," she said with a decisive nod. "But don't get any ideas."

He raised his eyebrows. "I make you toast. You invite me into your bed and try to seduce me with porn. What ideas could I possibly get?" he asked, chuckling softly.

The frown smoothed, and her eyes, though bloodshot and tired, took on a distinctly devilish glint. "Booth," she said, infusing his name with something that made his stomach contract, "If I were trying to seduce you, I wouldn't need pornography to do it." The words were no less sexy because her voice was made low and husky by the congestion. She held his gaze unblinkingly, and he felt his cheeks grow warm.

He looked away first, clearing his throat.

"I apologize. Did I disturb your Catholic sensibilities?"

He snorted. "As if."

"As if what?"

"Just be quiet," he muttered, brushing her hair back and cupping her head. Brennan's eyes drifted shut. Booth started at her eyebrows, using his thumbs to smooth over them in a firm, straight line. The tiny hairs tickled his thumbs, and he smiled. He worked his way up her forehead, trying to keep his touch gentle. Her skin felt hot and just the slightest bit damp under his hands. Finally, he came to her temples, where he rubbed small circles with his fingertips. She sighed.

He paused. "Tell me if I'm doing it too hard."

"I like it a little hard." The words slurred together, and Booth wondered if the Tylenol and his fingers were starting to work.

"I'll keep that in mind," he replied with a smirk

Brennan's eyes blinked open, and he could tell she was having trouble focusing. "That didn't come out the way I intended."

"Didn't it?" he asked, massaging the spot between her eyebrows.

"Shut up, Booth," she replied, but the words lacked heat.

Maybe he should take advantage of her drowsy state. He pitched his voice low. "You know, Bones, it's ok to need people sometimes."

"Hmmm..." she murmured. "I don't need anyone."

"That right?"

"Yes."

Booth moved his fingers back to Brennan's temples and waited to see if she would say anything else. He didn't have to wait too long.

"Right there," she said, tapping the center of her forehead. Her hand flopped back on the pillow and she sighed.

"Ok." He obeyed her request and moved his fingers.

_To be continued..._

The Beach Alibi is an actual book by Alison Kent. I haven't read it; I just pulled the sentence included in this chapter from an online excerpt.


	3. Leave me paralyzed

A/N: This is dedicated to TemperTemper. Sorry you've got the flu. Here's hoping you feel better soon, sweetie. :) Take two naked Booths and call me in the morning.

I am finally almost totally caught up on responding to PMs and reviews. I have a couple more to go and then I'll be completely done. Thanks for your patience and for making the effort to write me. You are wonderful.

For the Americans out there, Happy (almost) Thanksgiving. One thing I'm thankful for this year is you. All of you.

And a request: are there any Catholics out there? I'm neither Catholic, Christian, nor religious, and I may have some questions for future fics.

* * *

Chapter 3: Leave me paralyzed.

Booth jerked awake, assailed by the sensation of falling. It took a moment for awareness and memory to return. After massaging Brennan's forehead until she'd slipped into dreamland, he'd scooted up on the bed and leaned back against the headboard, intending to close his eyes for just a few minutes. He hadn't planned to fall asleep, hadn't expected he'd be able to, what with Brennan's noisy mouth breathing. He grimaced as his neck protested, and he gingerly turned his head. She lay curled on her side, her body a comma. He smiled at the sight of her open mouth and the tiny spot of drool that decorated her pillow. That he could work with.

Only a little light seeped in through the closed blinds. A quick glance at his watch told him it was 2:00 in the afternoon. Honestly, he couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a nap; it had felt good despite the aches and pains he was only now discovering as he moved from the awkward position he'd assumed. He'd slept in much worse places and in much worse positions, he thought, remembering Kosovo and the Gulf. Here, with Brennan, was a pretty good place to be. There was something unexpectedly peaceful about knowing that his partner lay beside him. He worried about her - maybe more than he should. But having her within touching distance made him worry a bit less. How much trouble could she possibly she get into while lying next to him?

Well, now that he thought about it, a hell of a lot of trouble. Yeah, definitely time to get out of her bed. He moved as quietly and slowly as he could, determined not to wake her. She needed rest. She was always doing too much. Booth had no doubt that she'd be at the lab right now, sneezing all over a pile of bones if he hadn't shown up. He'd make sure she stayed home — even if he had to tie her to the bed to keep her there. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, suddenly feeling hot. Oh God. Absolutely time to get out of her bed.

She murmured something in her sleep, her brow furrowed, as he shifted. He stilled and allowed himself to look at her, just look. If she'd been awake, he wouldn't have been able to watch her as he did now, his eyes lingering on the stubborn curve of her jaw and the gentle arch of her eyebrows. It wouldn't have been appropriate to stare at the pure temptation of her lips as he did now...and wonder just how soft they'd feel under his.

He remembered drawing a line in the sand and telling her they couldn't cross it, but lately the damn thing seemed blurry and indistinct — and he couldn't always tell which side of it he stood on.

He hesitated, knowing he'd be taking his life in his hands. The instinct for self-preservation warred with something else. The something else won, and Booth bent to brush a chaste kiss beside the corner of her mouth. He held his breath, fully expecting those clear blue eyes to shoot open as she sat up in the bed and punched him.

One shot to the kisser for the chance to be a breath away from her? Probably a fair trade.

But her brow smoothed out, and she remained asleep. Booth eased his legs over the side of the bed and shook his head, half relieved and half disappointed. What the heck was he doing? Cursing himself for being a fool, Booth left Brennan's bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar so he'd hear her when she woke.

* * *

Booth sat down on the couch and stretched his legs out in front of him as he switched on the TV, making sure the volume was low enough that it wouldn't carry to the bedroom and disturb Brennan. Trying to distract himself, he flipped through the channels. Unfortunately, it looked like she only had basic cable, and there really wasn't anything worth watching at the moment. He shook his head and sighed. Did he have to teach her everything? At least she'd finally a bought a TV. He supposed he should be grateful for that.  _Baby steps, Seeley. Baby steps._

Muttering something about squints, he rose and made his way to one of the numerous mahogany bookshelves that lined the walls of her living room. It didn't surprise him one bit that the books were arranged alphabetically by author. He rolled his eyes and grinned. Probably a miracle that they weren't sorted according to the Dewey Decimal system, like at a library.

His eyes searched for the B books and found them easily. A-ha. Temperance Brennan. Rubbing his hands together in anticipation, Booth crouched to reach the bottom shelf and pulled out  _Cross Bones_. Target acquired, he strode back toward the couch. Peering around the room stealthily in order to make sure Brennan wasn't standing there ready to pounce, Booth then placed his socked feet on the glass coffee table and settled back onto the couch with a sigh, getting nice and comfortable. Time to do a little research of his own.

He'd read a couple of her books, but not  _Cross Bones_. Of course he'd meant to, but with the kind of hours he worked, and then his days with Parker, he just hadn't gotten around to it. He cracked the book open and stopped at the page with the dedication. Yup, it still said, "This book is dedicated to my partner and friend, Special Agent Seeley Booth." He remembered she wouldn't let him read the manuscript, even though she'd let that loser — what was his name again? — Dingleberry? Dick? David? — look at it. But he'd snuck a peak at it in her apartment and seen the dedication. So he'd known about it, but he was still surprised to see that it had actually made it into print. She could have decided to change it at the last moment. But no, there it was in black and white. Bones had dedicated her book to him, Seeley Booth.

A small smile curved his lips as he nodded his head and ran his fingers over the small print. Instead of starting at the beginning, he flipped through the pages and skimmed the text in an attempt to find the good parts and see if Bones had been telling the truth about her editor advising her to do research because her scenes needed more heat. Just what had Kathy and Andy been up to lately? Booth stifled a laugh, already looking forward to finding out the answer. Brennan might never admit it, but Booth would bet his badge that Andy Lister was based on him.

As Booth turned the page, a piece of paper slipped out and fluttered to his lap. The neat, precise fold intrigued him, so he set the book down next to him and opened the stray sheet of paper. The jagged edge and the number at the top right corner alerted him that it had been torn from the book, but it was the smudged handwriting in the margin that caught his eye. The breath left his lungs as he stared at the page, reading words he was never meant to see, unless circumstances had turned out differently.

_Booth,_

_Hodgins says I have faith in you. It's not faith; I_ _know_   _you did everything you could. Don't blame yourself._

_Please look after Angela and Zack. Thank you._

_Goodbye._  
  
_T.B._

_P.S._   
_I don't mind anymore that you call me Bones._

He read and reread the note, eyes wide, until the words blurred in front of him and he could no longer see the page. But he didn't have to see it because one word, goodbye, was burned into his brain. And it was that one word that brought it all back. That made him shake with the knowledge of what the Grave Digger might have stolen from him one autumn day nearly a year ago.

Everything had changed that day. Everything and nothing.

They'd never talked about it again after he took her to church. She hadn't even let him stay over that night. But he'd needed to know that she was safe, that he could protect her, then, even though he hadn't been able to do it when it counted. Nothing could stand in the way of that need, not even Brennan herself. So he'd camped out in his car with a flask of coffee for company and kept vigil overnight. He and Cam had still been together then. When she'd asked him to come by that night, he'd simply told her he was busy. She hadn't pushed for details, and he'd been grateful for that. If she'd asked him what his plans were, he didn't know that he could have told her the truth...and he hadn't wanted to lie to her.

He'd said a prayer of thanks earlier that day. Every night thereafter, he included Brennan in his prayers, adding her to the list that included his parents, his brother, Rebecca, and his son.

Time had dulled the memory, but it hadn't erased it. As Booth stared at the page with unseeing eyes, he remembered how his heart had stopped when he'd gotten the call that she was missing. It had stopped for a second, and when it had resumed, it had beat hard and fast as the seconds became minutes and the minutes became hours and hope had dwindled and despair seemed inevitable.

A puff of smoke and he was running down the hill of the quarry. His lips moved as he silently mouthed the Lord's Prayer, heart in his throat, hands in the earth.  _Our Father who art in heaven..._

Only when she lay on the ground beside him did his heart resume its normal rhythm.  _Deliver us from evil._

What would he do if he never again saw her marching ahead of him, long legs devouring the distance between her and her destination? What would the world,  _his_  world, be like without her careful fingers methodically reassembling shards of bone?

Why did she matter so damned much? His mind could barely begin to answer the question, and yet...And yet his body, his gut, already knew.

Feeling tired even though he'd just had a nap, Booth tucked the note back into the book and walked to the shelf, sliding the book back into position and hoping against hope that he could push away the unwelcome thoughts just as easily.

* * *

Lost in his thoughts, Booth didn't hear Brennan come into the living room. He only became aware of her presence when she padded to a stop right in front of him.

"Hey," he said. "You're up. Feeling any better?"

"Slightly." She sighed and sank down beside him on the couch, her shorts riding up on her legs as she did so. "Thanks."

The begrudging tone made him smile in spite of himself. "You're welcome." He looked at his watch. "It's 6:00. You hungry?"

"No."

"You should eat. You managed to keep the toast down. That's a good sign. You ready to try some vegetable soup?"

"No."

"What's with the one word answers, Bones?"

"Sorry, Booth. I just feel a little..." She waved her hands.

"Groggy?" he supplied.

"Yes, groggy."

He looked at her more closely then, noting her bedhead and the pillow creases on her cheeks. "Tell you what, why don't you take a bath, and I'll make you some soup."

"Is that your way of telling me I smell?" Her brows drew together in a frown, and it was all he could do to resist brushing back her hair.

"Well..."

She narrowed her eyes at him and he laughed. He gave her a brisk pat on the leg and then stood. "I'll run you a bath. You stay there," he said, pointing at the couch.

"I'm not a dog, Booth."

"Woof."

"Have I told you lately that I hate you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, you have. You've also threatened to shoot me. Repeatedly."

"I would, but I don't think I have the energy to pick up a gun right now."

"Lucky for me. Now, don't move until I come back," he ordered.

"And you complain that I'm bossy," she said, eyebrows raised above watchful blue eyes.

"That's because you are," he shot back.

"I may be bossy, but I get the job done."

"Always," he replied, all traces of humor gone from his voice. He eyed her seriously. It scared him that even sick, with tired eyes, limp hair, and a nose to rival Rudolph's, she made his heart beat a little faster. "Always," he repeated, keeping his gaze locked on hers as he backed out of the room.

What the hell was he going to do?


	4. Cuts like a knife

A/N: All right, ladies and gents (not sure how many gents are reading this), this is me politely asking for your feedback, whether you thought this was good, bad, or something in between. Dear Santa, I think I've been a pretty good girl this year... :D I know I'm not getting Seeley Booth or David Boreanaz wrapped in a shiny red bow, but feedback's the next best thing. That's what I keep telling myself, anyway.

Thanks for reading!

* * *

Chapter 4: Cuts like a knife.

Booth set it down on the bathroom counter and hoped that Brennan would see it. Because it was autumn, he hadn't been able to find the real thing. But it was, he hoped, the thought that counted.

Ignoring the way his stomach twisted every time he recalled what he'd stumbled upon that afternoon, Booth turned on the faucet and fiddled with the taps until the water ran hot, but not hot enough to scald. After putting in the drain stopper, he turned away to let the tub fill, and crouched before the cabinet under the sink. He rummaged through the contents in search of something suitable to pour into the bath.

It felt strange to be touching her things. He knew he wasn't doing anything he shouldn't be doing, but there was something undeniably intimate about looking through her bathroom. Extra bars of soap, stacked neatly on top of each other. Several bottles of shampoo. A number of unopened toothbrushes. Huh. Extra toothbrushes. He frowned and wondered who the brushes were for. Just who did she have staying over at her place, anyway? The question made him narrow his eyes and clench his fists.

Shoving aside the unwanted and confusing feelings beginning to bubble up inside him, Booth closed his hand around yet another bottle. He pulled it out and read the label. Orange Sandalwood Three-In-One: Body Wash, Bubble Bath, and Shampoo. Of course she'd use something just a little different. He unscrewed the cap and raised the bottle to his nose. It smelled girly enough to make him smile at the thought of Brennan using it and yet just unusual enough to remind him of the woman herself. He poured a dollop of it into the tub and then stared at the bottle.

It was half full, which meant she'd used it before. He silently congratulated himself on his investigative skill. As the water in the tub started to froth and foam, and the spicy fragrance of the body wash rose in the air, he couldn't help but picture Brennan soaking in the tub. Maybe after a long day out in the field, mucking around in God only knew what in an effort to retrieve a set of bones. She'd take off her clothes and step into the tub, sighing in pleasure as the warm water closed over her. As she slowly relaxed, her head would tilt back and her eyes would drift shut. Her hair would be pinned up, a few silky strands slipping free to cling to the moist skin of her neck and...

With a muffled curse, Booth dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and then pinched his arm. "Ouch."  _Get a grip._  What was he doing, sitting around and fantasizing about Brennan taking a bath? There must be something in that damn body wash. That had to be it. Jaw clenched tight, Booth turned off the faucet and sped out of the bathroom as if the hounds of hell followed behind him.

Brennan still sat on the couch, her legs tucked to one side. Booth clapped his hands and then rubbed them together briskly. "Ok, your bath's ready."

"Does that mean I have your permission to move now?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Yeah. But only to the bathroom. And don't lock the door."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Why, do you want to scrub my back for me?" Her expression didn't change, but he had the distinct impression that she was laughing at him. She had a knack for turning things around on him whenever he thought he finally had the upper hand. He hadn't yet figured out how she did it. Maybe someday.

He cleared his throat and looked away, swallowing hard, as his earlier thoughts flooded back with stunning clarity. He was suddenly very thankful she couldn't read his mind. "Uh, no. I just thought, you know, in case you needed something." He scratched the back of his neck and shuffled his feet. "You're kinda weak at the moment."

"Weak?" she said, her voice rising with indignation. She stood and crossed the room to stand in front of him. "I'll have you know I'm trained in three martial arts, Booth." Her chin tipped up in defiance.  _Here it comes_. She jabbed him in the chest with her index finger. "I could incapacitate you in—"

"Yeah, yeah, Bones," he replied, capturing her hand and cutting her off with a bored sigh. Her hand was small and deceptively fragile, and her skin hot and damp against his. He marveled at the life he felt pulsing in her. She was  _alive_ —and that could so easily have not been the case. Booth broke that chain of thought, wary of where it would lead him.

But in spite of the chaste kiss, in spite of the note, in spite of the not-so-chaste thoughts he'd been having, Booth couldn't resist yanking Brennan's chain.  _Wind her up and watch her go._ "I'm an Agent and a former Ranger. Trained in close combat and grappling."  _Where she stops, nobody knows._ He winked and purposefully tossed her a lazy smile, tugging her forward several steps. "Bring it on, Bones. Bring. It. On."

Brennan wrenched her hand out of his grasp. He could have held on, but he released her instead. She frowned and cocked her head to the side, forehead crinkled in confusion. "Bring what?"

He gave a short bark of laughter before loosely clasping her by the shoulders and steering her toward the bathroom. "Never mind, Bones." He shook his head and smiled indulgently. "You're in no condition to spar right now. Besides, the water's getting cold."

"Remember this day," she grumbled. She brought her hands to her face and sneezed several times in rapid succession, her whole body quivering with the force of it.

"Bless you," he said, and patted her back.

Brennan groaned and wiped her nose with the crumpled tissue clutched in her right hand. "I will take you down, Booth."

"With what?" he asked, raising his brows incredulously. "Your breath?"

She elbowed him in the side and he grunted, rubbing the sore spot. He really was lucky she hadn't caught him kissing her. Thank God for small mercies.

She marched into the bathroom, head held high, and he couldn't resist a parting shot. "Say, Bones," he called out, hands on his hips, "as your partner, I feel it's my duty to suggest that you brush your teeth while you're in there. Whew! Talk about dragon breath." The door slammed shut, and Booth grinned.

* * *

Her kitchen looked nicer than his, but he'd bet she didn't use it at as often as he used his. Booth liked to cook. So much of his job seemed to be about picking up the pieces of things that had broken, gone wrong. But cooking consisted of chopping, cutting, and mixing—taking separate things and putting them together to form something bigger (and tastier) than their individual parts. Breaking things down for the purpose of putting them back together again in a new form. He appreciated that.

As Booth walked around the small room, his eyes flitted from the cool shimmer of stainless steel appliances to the placid gleam of granite countertops the color of cream. Sweet. She'd cooked for him once, he remembered. His mouth watered as he recalled the way the macaroni and cheese she'd made had melted in his mouth. Who knew she could cook like that? Come to think of it, he doubted there were many things she  _couldn't_ do well if she put that crazy mind of hers to it.

That was his Bones, he thought with a fond smile. Wait, whoa, no. Not his Bones. He shook his head. Not  _his_ anything. Not really. Well, his partner. But that was it. Right? Right.

That settled, Booth started opening and shutting cabinets, searching for a cutting board, a pot, and a pan. He'd been in Brennan's apartment countless times, but he'd never cooked anything in her kitchen, so he didn't know where anything besides the utensils were located. But today seemed to be a day for discovery. Once he found what he was looking for, he opened the fridge and pulled out the supplies he'd bought for the veggie soup he planned on making. He set about washing the potatoes, carrots, celery, green pepper, and green beans. The warm water sluiced over his hands as he rinsed each item, and his traitorous mind jumped to an image of hot, bubbly water sluicing over the curves and planes of his partner's body as she settled into the bath he'd drawn for her. Frustrated by his inability to block out those images, Booth scrubbed at the skin of a potato with much more force than was necessary.

_No_. He took a deep breath and slowly released it, willing away the Technicolor visuals. Better, he thought approvingly, turning off the faucet and directing his attention back to the potatoes. He peeled them quickly and with practiced ease, turning them in his left hand as he wielded the peeler in his right hand, removing the brown skin in smooth, even strips.

Much better, he thought, by the time he started dicing the potatoes. The knife clicked rhythmically against the plastic cutting board on each downward stroke, setting Booth's mind free to wander again.

And wander it did.

Chop.  _Don't blame yourself._  Chop.  _Goodbye_. Chop.  _Don't blame yourself._ Chop.  _Goodbye._

He cut faster, hoping to outrun his thoughts. But it was like playing Whack-a-mole; as soon as he squashed thoughts of Brennan in the bath, out exploded thoughts of that fucking goodbye note.

Chop.  _Don't blame yourself._ Chop.  _Goodbye_. Chop.  _Don't blame yourself._ Chop.  _Goodbye._

Booth sped up again, bringing the knife down faster and faster, watching the silver blade slice through the white flesh of another potato and then the orange body of a carrot. He looked up for a second, seeing not the knife, the cutting board, or even Brennan's kitchen, but the clear, nearly translucent blue of her eyes as he pulled her from the earth that had swallowed her whole.

Who the fuck else would he have blamed if they hadn't gotten there in time?

Christ, he thought, and then felt remorseful for having taken His name in vain, even if it had only been in his thoughts. She'd been kidnapped and buried alive. She'd probably been terrified, facing the possibility of her own premature death. But her note had mentioned none of that. Her note had been about him and Angela and Zack. When facing almost certain death, Brennan's thoughts had been for him, knowing what her and Hodgins' deaths would do to him.

But she hadn't known. Not really. He hadn't either. Not until today.

The knife came down hard, slicing into Booth's thumb. He hissed, the knife clattering to the cutting board as the pain penetrated the dense fog of his thoughts. Blood welled up from the clean cut. The pain came as nearly a relief. He rinsed his thumb in the sink and then covered it with a paper towel, applying pressure for more than a minute. When he was satisfied that the bleeding had slowed, Booth wrapped a fresh paper towel around his thumb and resumed his work, dicing the remaining vegetables and concentrating on the dull throb that beat in time with his pulse.

If his pulse beat a little faster than it usually did, he did his best to ignore it.

* * *

Booth felt Brennan's eyes on him for almost a minute before he turned to face her. It occurred to him then that he always knew when she stood in the room with him. The back of his neck prickled with an awareness of her presence, even if he couldn't see her. He felt her absence just as keenly.

Some things the body knew, even if the mind didn't. A lesson he'd tried to teach her. He didn't think she'd learned it yet. Then again, maybe he just wasn't a very good teacher, seeing as he hadn't fully accepted the lesson himself.

He heard her labored breathing behind him. One last stir of the soup and he was ready to face her. Booth took a deep breath, switched off the stove, turned around.

And promptly forgot how to breathe. Damp, dark hair parted straight down the middle, framing a face that had grown to be as familiar to him as his own. A pink nose that did nothing to detract from her beauty in his eyes. Eyes so clear he wondered if they might see down into the deepest, darkest parts of him. He sure hoped not.

Yeah, she cleaned up well, even when she was wearing an oversized navy blue Jeffersonian sweatshirt and sweatpants. She looked young and defenseless; Booth silently asked how her parents had turned and walked away from her, knowing she could look like that.

She blinked back at him with those eyes and held up her right hand. "How did you know?" she asked, her voice laced with an accusation.

"I knew."

"But how?"

He shrugged and looked away, the sunny daffodils on the card drawing his eyes the same way she drew them...no matter where she was. "I just knew."

"Did Russ tell you?" She tapped the card with her other hand.

"What? No." He shook his head and frowned. "Why would two guys talk about flowers?"

"I just don't understand how you could know daffodils are my favorite flower."

"Look, if you don't like it, just toss it in the trash. I would have brought you real daffodils, but they're out of season. Just throw it away. It was stupid," he said and turned away, already reaching for a bowl.

"No. It's not." Booth stopped as he felt her hand graze his. "It's not stupid. I...like it." Brennan tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and Booth marveled again at how young she looked. So young it made his stomach tighten.

"You do?" he asked, and wondered why it even mattered.

"Yes."

"Oh." He nodded and fought the urge to smile. "Good. I'm glad. I thought it might cheer you up."

"It did." She paused, her eyes searching his. "Thank you, Booth."

Twice in one day. Wow. What had he done to deserve that? "No problem, Bones," he replied, giving her hand a gentle squeeze and swallowing back a rush of emotion. As he released her hand, the paper towel covering his cut fluttered to the floor.

Brennan bent to pick it up, opening it and examining it with narrowed eyes. "This is blood." She waved the paper towel and glared at him.

"Yeah."

"Let me see," she said, reaching for his hands.

"It's nothing," he replied, evading her grasp.

"Booth," she warned, "let me see it."

"It's nothing, Bones. Just a little cut." He held his hand out and wiggled his thumb. "See? Hardly a scratch."

"What happened?"

"I had to show the potato who's boss."

He was gratified to see her roll her eyes at his lame attempt at a joke. "Wait here while I get a Band-Aid," she said and left the kitchen.

"Hello," he called. "Real men don't need Band-Aids." He thumped his chest with a closed fist. "I am a real man. Therefore I don't need a Band-Aid. Bones, are you listening to me?"

"I'm trying very hard not to," she muttered as she returned with a Band-Aid and a small tube of ointment.

"Is this really necessary?" he groused, secretly pleased by her fussing over him.

"Yes, it is. Now be quiet." She stepped closer, squeezing a drop of ointment onto his thumb and smearing it over the cut before peeling the tabs off the bandage and wrapping it around his thumb. She bent her head to peer at his hand and examine her handiwork. The spicy scent of her body wash lingered on her skin and hair and drifted to him as he inhaled. Finally, she looked up and caught him staring at her. "What?"

"Aren't you going to kiss it and make it better?"

Brennan's eyes rounded in shock and she dropped his hand, sneezing twice.

Oh hell. He blamed the body wash.


	5. Dare you to move

**Chapter 5:** Dare You to Move

" _Aren't you going to kiss it and make it better?_ "

The words he'd just spoken ricocheted in Booth's skull, and he mentally smacked himself in the head. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Great time for his mouth to detach from his brain. Said brain raced as he scrambled to find a way back onto solid ground. He ripped a page from Brennan's playbook—when in doubt, fight. "What's the matter, Bones? Cat got your tongue?" He allowed his mouth to stretch into a grin he knew would infuriate her. "Didn't think I'd live to see the day you'd be speechless."

"Ha," she answered, and set the daffodil card on the kitchen counter. "You wish." She gave a haughty sniff, crossed her arms over her chest, and widened her stance. "As if anything you said could possibly render me speechless."

A flash of inspiration swept over Booth, and his grin widened. Maybe there was a way to salvage the situation, after all, and have a little fun, too. "Come on, Bones. I dare ya. Kiss my thumb."

"You dare me to kiss your thumb?" Brennan's forehead wrinkled in disbelief.

"Yup. I dare you." He nodded smugly. "'I know you're too chicken to do it. Probably afraid you won't be able to resist the old Seeley Booth charm; few women can." He rocked back on his heels and snapped an invisible pair of suspenders.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head as if she were a teacher and he a naughty schoolboy. "This one can," she muttered. "But I'm still not kissing your thumb. It's an utterly juvenile idea."

"Bok bok!" he clucked, tucking his hands in his armpits and flapping his arms like a chicken. He egged her on, counting on her inability to resist a direct challenge—especially one that came from him.

"How old are you, Booth?"

He clucked again, this time adding a little head motion to it for good measure.

She suddenly stood straighter. "Let's make this a little more interesting, shall we?" she asked, one elegant eyebrow raised. She smiled a Mona Lisa smile, and he gulped, smelling trouble. "If I do it, if I kiss your thumb, what do I get in return?"

"I don't know. What do you want?"

An unholy gleam lit her eyes, and another slow smile slid over her face. "If I do it, before dinner you have to read aloud a few sentences of my choosing from  _The Beach Alibi_." Ah, there it was again, that pesky ability of hers to turn things around on him.

He stroked his chin thoughtfully and silently considered her words. How bad could it be, even if he lost? "Ok. I accept your terms. But what if I win? What if you  _don't_ have the nerve to kiss it? What do I get?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. What do you want?" she asked, parroting his own words back to him.

A dangerous question, that. Possibilities flooded his brain, and he turned them all over and discarded them one by one until only a single option remained. "I get to ask you a question. One question. You have to answer." She opened her mouth to speak, and he anticipated her question. "And no, I won't give you any hints." The way he figured it, it was a win-win situation for him. If he won, she'd have to answer his question. If he lost, he'd still get a kiss on the thumb from her. Of course, then he'd have to read aloud from her "romance novel." He was going to ignore that part until and unless it became unavoidable.

"Fine," she said, her expression nonchalant. The pause only lasted for a split-second, but he noticed it and wondered at its cause. "I have nothing to hide."

"Everyone has something to hide." The quiet words caused Brennan's gaze to sharpen, so Booth hastily changed the subject. "So...What'll it be, Bones?"

"That's an easy question to answer, Booth." She gazed at him like he was a poor sucker. "I'll kiss your thumb." She stepped forward.

"Oh," he raised his hand as if to stop her, "just one more thing: the kiss has to last for three Mississippis."

"What?" Her befuddlement made him smile.

"Three seconds, Bones. I'll count 'em off."

"Fair enough," she replied with a nod before reaching for his hand with both of hers.

He held his breath as she clasped his forearm with one hand and wrapped the other around his palm. The smile slipped from his face as she tugged his hand toward her...and finally pressed his thumb against the pillowy softness of her mouth.

The sensation jolted him so that it took a second before he remembered to count. "One Mississippi." She stared at him without blinking, her pupils wide and dark; he stared back, feeling as though he were in a dark tunnel with only a spot of light—centered on her face. "Two Mississippi." Her fingers fluttered across the underside of his arm, and he felt an answering flutter in his chest. A shiver arced down his spine, and goosebumps rose in response. "Three Mississippi," he finished, praying she didn't notice that he sounded a bit breathless.

Brennan's lips parted, and her warm breath swept Booth's skin a moment before she released him. The bottom dropped out of his stomach. She didn't step back immediately, as he expected she would, and he found himself clearing his throat. He stuffed his hands into his pockets the minute he realized he was stroking his thumb with his other hand. Seeley Booth had been with lots of women, and he liked to think of himself as a smooth and confident man. But something about this woman threw him off-balance and made him feel like a boy sometimes.

Like right now.

Brennan blinked and brushed her thumb over her mouth. "I win." Her lips curved in an enigmatic smile that didn't quite reach the sky of her eyes, and Booth found himself wondering who had won what. "So, ready for storytime?"

* * *

They settled on opposite ends of the couch, he with his legs stretched out in front of him, and she with her bent knees drawn up to her chest, revealing her bare feet. He glanced at his watch. "I think it's time for your next dose of Tylenol, Bones."

"You're stalling, Booth." She quirked an eyebrow and flashed him a knowing look that made him grit his teeth.

"No, I'm not. I'm just concerned for your health and well-being, Bones. It's been over six hours."

"A few more minutes won't hurt." She waved her hand at the book she'd brought out from the bedroom and set beside him on the couch. "Now, either start reading, or concede defeat."

"Concede defeat? You've gotta be kidding me. Never." He picked up the book and stared at the sentences she'd underlined, willing the book to burst into flames. When nothing happened, he heaved a sigh of disappointment. He turned his head to look at Brennan, and she gazed back at him expectantly, her eyes twinkling with mirth. At his expense, damn it. He cracked his neck and sighed. Might as well get this over with.

He raised the book to eye level and began to read aloud. "When he didn't answer immediately—or at all—she raised her gaze and asked him again with her eyes. You want to kiss me? And suddenly he realized there was nothing he wanted more." Booth paused and closed his eyes.

He could do this.

He skipped to the next sentence she'd underlined in blue ink. "A want that caught him like a hard knock to the jaw because it seemed so right for all the wrong reasons," Booth droned in a monotone.

"Booth, you're cheating," Brennan scolded with a frown. "I'm certain this isn't how you read to Parker. This should be a dramatic reading. With feeling. Try and inject a little enthusiasm into the words. Remember, this is supposed to be entertaining."

Oh, he had no doubt that this was entertaining—for  _her_. He tightened his grip on the book and continued reading. "She slid both hands up his chest to his neck, cradled his nape first, then the base of his skull, and lifted her face, lips parted, eyes sharp as if taking him in like she would the rules to an exam." Booth paused to take a breath, and the meaning of what he was reading began to sink in. Cold terror blew threw him when he realized that the description of the sharp eyes reminded him of his partner. He shifted on the couch, trying in vain to get comfortable as he was hit with a visual of Bones sliding her hands up his chest. Unnerved, he shot her a sideways glance and noted the small smile playing about her mouth.

Damn her; she was  _enjoying_  this.

How? How was it that she'd taken something he knew had been embarrassing for _her_ and then managed to make _him_ squirm?

"He lowered his head, covered her mouth, took full advantage of her lips that were yielding and accepting..." Booth inhaled slowly, trying to get his pulse under control and marshal his thoughts, which were suddenly filled with pictures of him kissing Brennan. This was worse—way worse—than his wandering thoughts while she'd been taking a bath. Because now he actually had some clue what her lips would feel like against his, if that ridiculous thumb kiss was any indication. And what the hell had he been thinking, anyway?

That wasn't even a kiss. It was his  _thumb_ , for crying out loud. Nothing remotely sexy about that. No way.

Why did his pants suddenly feel tight? "...And so very hot when she kissed him back. She slipped her tongue along his, played with his, tempted..." Booth slammed the book shut and tossed it on the couch. "For the love of...Enough, Bones. You win. So help me, you win." If this had been a test, he'd have gotten a big, fat "F" circled in bright red ink. Booth swallowed thickly and shook his head. His ears were burning; he could feel it. What if he'd caught whatever Brennan had? That would explain it.

The couch sagged as Brennan moved to sit next to him. Mortified, Booth stared straight ahead and wished the floor would open up and swallow him. "You did much better toward the end, Booth." The words sounded surprisingly cool and controlled. He would have expected more gloating. He snuck a peek at her out of the corner of his eye and noticed the way her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.

And somehow that made it ok. The ridiculousness of the situation dawned on him then, and Booth felt the tension leave his shoulders. His lips twitched in response to Brennan's obvious amusement, and he nudged her with his shoulder. "You're a dirty girl, Bones," he said, unable to keep the admiring note out of his voice.

"Thanks, Booth." She nudged him back. "I have to admit, you lasted longer than I thought you would. Oh, and by the way, I won." This time she made no effort to hide her amusement, throwing him a Cheshire Cat grin that made him want to strangle her and kiss her senseless. Whoa. So not going there again. Even though he could still smell the spicy fragrance of her body wash. Why couldn't she just be smelly and snaggletoothed? This would all be so much easier then.

"Way to be a gracious winner, Bones."

"I don't believe in being gracious, Booth. I believe in being honest."

Booth turned to face her, his legs brushing hers as he did so. "Really? You mean that?"

"Of course," she replied without hesitation. "You should know that by now."

Maybe this was the opening he hadn't known he needed. "Then you won't mind if I ask you a question." He had tried to keep his tone neutral, but he felt the stiffness in her body, as if she were bracing for a blow. Maybe she knew him as well as he knew her.

The atmosphere in the room thickened, and for a moment, Booth studied the shadows cast against the wall by the lamps situated around the room. He took a deep breath and then slowly released it.

"What was it like for you when you and Hodgins were buried alive?"


	6. With you, there's no easy answer

Brennan's eyes widened, and she gasped as if she'd been struck. "What? Why would you ask me that now?"

"We've never really talked about it, and maybe it would be good for you to—"

"To what? Delve back into something that happened a long time ago?"

"Not that long ago." Booth shook his head and frowned. "It'll be a year in a couple weeks, Bones."

"Don't you think I know that?" She stood and started to pace, the paleness of her bare feet standing out against the navy blue of her sweatpants.

"Bones, you're sick. Why are you wandering around barefoot?" He gestured at her feet. "Go put on some socks."

"Don't boss me around, Booth." Her eyes spit fire as she turned to look at him. "You don't get to tell me what to do."

"Either get some socks or I'll go through your drawers and bring you a pair myself. Your choice." He raised his eyebrows. "What'll it be?"

The glare she shot him might have intimidated him at one point. Now, he felt immune. He sighed and shook his head as Brennan turned and stalked away from him.

When she returned, he had Tylenol and a glass of water ready for her. "Here," he said. "Take these first, and then we'll talk."

She accepted the pills and water without comment. He waited until she'd set the glass down on the coffee table. "The very fact that you do know that it's been almost a year means something. Believe me, it means something. And that's part of why I think we should talk about it." He tried to keep his voice soft. "These things...They can eat at you. I told you about...about Kosovo, and General Raddick. I had never talked about that with anyone, Bones. Didn't really want to. But Hank, he made me see that I needed to—even though I didn't want to. So I told you."

"But why me? Why tell me, of all people, Booth?"

"I told you because I knew you wouldn't flinch away from the truth. And I knew you wouldn't say any of the stupid, meaningless things people say when they hear horrible things that don't make sense. That can never make sense. I knew you wouldn't tell me to get over it, or that time heals all wounds. Bones, I knew you wouldn't lie to me."

Shaking his head, he crossed to stand by one of the bookshelves. "There are certain things you do, or things you have done to you, that you never get over. You just absorb them. They become a part of who you are. As much a part of you as"-he paused and fumbled for the right words-"as your bones." He rubbed the back of his neck, hoping he was getting through to her. "I knew that, with your parents leaving, you understood that." He sighed and shrugged. "Look. It doesn't...It doesn't have to be me that you talk to. Have you talked about it with anyone?"

"No."

"Not even Angela?"

"No."

"Why not? She's your best friend. I think she'd understand."

"It was hard enough for Angela, having Hodgins trapped down there with me. There wasn't any point. She needed to move on."

"What about what you need, Bones?"

She shot him a hard look. "I won, Booth. I'm not obligated to answer any of your questions."

"No, you're not," he acknowledged. "You're right about that. But I'm asking you to anyway. As your...friend." He swallowed. Friend. The word couldn't begin to encompass what he'd started to realize she meant to him.

"Why?"

"Because it matters to me. Because I think you need to talk about it—as much as I needed to talk about Kosovo." Brennan pulled the sleeves of her sweatshirt down over her hands and looked away from him. Her gaze drifted toward the front door, telegraphing her thoughts. "Don't do it. Don't run from me," he said. "Please," he added, his voice soft. "I'm not trying to hurt you."

"I know that."

"Good. That's something, at least." He gripped an edge of the bookcase. "Look, if even a little bit of your hesitation is about wanting to protect me, you've gotta know there's no need. I know you thought there was a good chance you might not make it out alive. Bones," he said, knowing he was taking a huge risk, "you didn't lie to me; I'm not going to lie to you, either. I saw it." He paused, hoping that telling her the truth wouldn't turn out to be a monumental mistake. "I saw the goodbye note you wrote to me."

Her gaze snapped from the floor to him. "What? When? You went through my things?"

The betrayal in her voice cut him deeper than the knife that had sliced his thumb. "No. Let me explain. That isn't—"

"Get out." The coldness of her voice startled him. "Just get out." Her eyes flashed as as she pointed at the front door.

"Hang on, Bones. I'm not leaving." Booth crossed the room to grasp Brennan by her shoulders. "Just listen to me for a minute. Please. Just listen." She tried to shake him off, but he held fast, hating that he bore responsibility for the frost lining her voice and eyes. "I didn't go through your things. While you were sleeping, I got bored. I hadn't read  _Cross Bones_ , so I pulled it off your shelf. When I opened it, the note fell out. Then I read it. I swear to you, Bones, I didn't go looking for it."

"How do I know you weren't snooping through my belongings?" Her shoulders felt like stone beneath his hands.

"You don't. But you trust me, don't you, Bones? You trust me with your life, and I trust you with mine. Doesn't that mean something?" She wouldn't look at him, but at least she no longer tried to shake him off. He loosened his grip and let his hands slide down to clasp hers lightly. "God, don't use this as an excuse to shut me out. Talk to me. Please." He tugged her toward the couch and waited for her to sit.

She pulled her legs up in front of her, curling them to her chest. "Are you cold?" he asked.

No response.

Maybe he deserved that. She was sick, and he was pushing her. But what if this moment was the only chance he'd ever have?

"Hang on," he said, turning to head back down the hall. He returned carrying her blanket, feeling relieved that she hadn't run away while he'd slipped into her room. As gently as he could, he tucked the blanket around her. "Better?"

Brennan tilted her chin, avoiding his gaze.

Booth sat down next to her and leaned his elbows on his knees. "I wish I could tell you I'm sorry I saw your note." In truth, he wished a lot of things. "But that'd be a lie. I'm not sorry. Because that note tells me something. It tells me you knew that you and Hodgins might die down there. And almost dying like that, Bones, had to have affected you. In a big way. The other thing it tells me is that you wanted to protect me." He looked down at his hands. "And I want to thank you for that."

He slanted Brennan a glance to see if any of his words had affected her, but her face remained shuttered and impassive. He hated that. Anger he could take. But indifference,  _her_  indifference, chilled him.

Finally, she spoke, and he started to feel warm again. "I don't want your thanks, Booth. I was simply telling the truth. Rationally speaking, it wouldn't have been your fault—"

"Thank you anyway," he said, cutting her off. "Look, you must have been terrified, but that note was all about me and Angela and Zack." He paused. "I want to know about you."

"But I don't understand why, Booth. All right, so you accidentally saw something you shouldn't have. What good will it do to discuss the kidnapping—something that's over and done with?"

"Are you absolutely sure it's over and done with Bones?" he asked, wishing, not for the first time, that he could see into her thoughts. "'Cause I can tell you that sometimes you don't realize what an emotional weight you're carrying around till it isn't there anymore. Or until it's lighter. Like when I had to see Dr. Wyatt. I don't think I knew how much the thing with Epps was bugging me until Gordon Gordon forced me to talk about it."

She turned her head to look at him, her expression serious. "Are you forcing me to talk about it?"

He silently considered her question. "No. I'm asking you to."

His answer seemed to satisfy her, because she nodded. "All right. Let's see...I woke up, and at first I didn't know where I was. The radio was playing. I switched on the interior light, and I felt this pain on the back of my neck. I reached up, and I ascertained that it was a burn—most likely from a stun gun. When I tried to open the door, it stuck. And when I rolled down the window, dirt started to fall inside. Then I heard this sound. A moan. From the backseat. It was Jack, and he was injured. That's...That's when I knew we were buried alive."

Booth put his hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. He fought the urge to put it back.

"We speculated on what might have happened."

"You, Dr. Brennan, speculated?" He hoped the small joke would make the conversation a little easier for her.

She rewarded him with a slight smile. "Yes, I admit I did." The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. "The details aren't clear in my mind anymore. But I think we talked about the Grave Digger and estimated how many hours of oxygen we had left." Her voice assumed a distinctly detached, businesslike tone. "We did an inventory of our supplies. Bottled water, towels, a laser pointer—"

"Stop, Bones," he said gently. "I know you're tempted to be totally logical and rational about what happened. And believe me, I get that. But I don't think that's going to help you."

"Then I don't understand what you want, Booth." She frowned and shifted on the couch. "You said you wanted me to talk about what happened when I was kidnapped."

"No," he corrected, reaching out to brush a strand of hair off her face. This time she didn't push him away. "I asked you tell me what it was like for you when you and Hodgins were buried alive. There's a difference."

She frowned. "What's the difference?"

"Bones, I'm not asking for a blow by blow replay of everything that happened while you were trapped down there. I'm asking you to tell me how you  _felt._ "

She sat silently for a long time; he wondered if he'd pushed too hard. Finally she spoke, cutting through the silence. "I...I don't know if I can do that."

The tremor in her voice convinced him he'd given her enough space. He searched for her hand under the blanket, clasping it firmly when he found it. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes," she said. At the sound of that single word, the knot in his chest unwound.

"Then trust me when I say you're ok. Talking about it won't put you back down there, Bones. I promise you're safe now. You're safe here with me."

"You can't promise that, Booth." She began to pull away, and he felt her starting to bristle and gather steam. "Anything could happen tomorrow. Anything could happen one minute from now—"

"Yup, it could." He tightened his hand around hers. "But right here, right this second, you're safe. With me." He sighed. "Maybe that's the best any of us can hope for." He moved back so he could look her in the eye and then searched his brain for a way to explain it so that she'd understand. "Do you remember when I convinced you to visit your mother's grave?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember how you didn't want to go?"

"Yes. But I don't see how that's relevant—"

He interrupted her. "Humor me. Do you remember what happened?"

She nodded. "I talked to the headstone. And neither it, nor my mother, answered."

"Yeah, but do you remember how you felt afterward?"

"I felt frustrated, because I didn't get a response. Then I saw the silver dolphin my father had left." Her expression turned thoughtful. "And I felt...a bit better."

"Did you only feel better because of the dolphin?" He held his breath and watched the emotions tumble across her face. He wondered if she had any idea how she looked to him.

"No," she said at last. "Well, at least I don't think so," she amended. "It was a relief, maybe, to articulate some of the questions I had about my father."

"Bingo," he said, and waited for her to make the connection. He didn't have to wait too long.

"So you're saying that if I articulate my feelings about being kidnapped, I'll feel better?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. It's really up to you. I can't force you. Even if I could, I don't think I'd want to." It was true, he realized; he really couldn't force her. While he could help her see she had a choice, he'd then have to stand back and let her make it.

"But I feel fine, Booth."

"Bones," he said with a sigh. "I want to help, if I can. So let me ask you again—are you absolutely sure it's over and done with? Are you positive you feel fine?" He suspected she didn't. If nothing else, why keep the goodbye note? While it was possible that she'd just slipped the note back into the book and forgotten about it, his gut said otherwise.

She reached for a tissue and then blew her nose. When she looked at him again, her expression made him ache. "I..." she began, and then trailed off. Her forehead creased in a frown. He listened to the distant hum of traffic and waited for the words to come, trusting that they would. "I knew we had to stay calm. If we became too agitated, our respiration would increase, and we would use up the oxygen more quickly."

He eased back against the couch, still holding her hand. "Makes sense."

"I knew we had to be rational and discern if there were clues that could reveal our location. But there was a part of me that wanted to scream—and just keep screaming."

"I'd say that's pretty normal, under the circumstances." He remembered feeling the same way as the hours ticked by and his frustration mounted.

"I had to make an incision in Hodgins' leg, to relieve the pressure. The way he screamed, Booth..." She paused, her mouth twisting at the harrowing memory. "I know it was very painful for him."

Booth squeezed her hand. "It must have been painful for you, too." He deliberately kept his voice neutral, even though the reality of what she'd endured left him feeling anything but that.

"It...I was scared that I'd killed him. I'm not a surgeon; I'm a forensic anthropologist." She released an uneven breath and shook her head. "I'm used to dealing with bones, not living, breathing, bleeding... _screaming_  people."

"I'm sorry." To feel responsible for another person's life, in a situation like that...The burden of that responsibility must have weighed heavily on her.

"For what?" she asked.

"That you had to go through that."

"You can't blame yourself for the kidnapping, Booth."

"But if I'd just—"

"No." She shook her head vehemently. "It wasn't your fault."

Booth was surprised when she squeezed his hand. Her attempt to comfort him affected him as much as the text of that damned note had. Feeling too much, Booth cleared his throat and tried to clear his head, too.

"He was unconscious for a long time," she continued. "I had a lot of time to think while he was passed out."

"What did you think about?" he asked in an attempt to keep her talking.

"Too many things." He reeled at the impact of her sad smile. "I thought about Russ and how we were just getting to know each other again. I thought about all the places I'd never see, and the—the books I'd never write, if I..."

"If you what?"

"If I died down there." She sniffed, and he looked to see if she was crying. Her eyes appeared dry, but her hand trembled in his. "I believed you'd come for us, Booth. Because I'd seen what you could do. But a part of me had to acknowledge the possibility that we wouldn't be found in time." She sighed. "I'm a scientist, Booth. An empiricist. I can't believe in God." She laughed, the sound like breaking glass. "I tried, you know."

"You did?" He recalled her telling him that she hadn't prayed during the kidnapping.

"Yes, I did. While I was trapped, I tried to allow for the possibility that God exists. But I couldn't do it."

"Why not?"

"Because I couldn't believe that if God existed, my parents would have left me and Russ."

Her words robbed him of thought and left him helpless to formulate a response. Knowing that she'd been buried alive and unable to find even a measure of the solace he found in God hurt him in a way he couldn't begin to explain.

"I know we all have to die, Booth," she continued, rousing him from his thoughts. "But I didn't want to die then. Not like that. Not buried alive." Brennan's voice broke, and the naked fear in her eyes shook him to the core.

Booth released her hand and wrapped his arms around her, holding her against him in a way he hadn't been able to when he'd pulled her from the earth.

He held her—as his heart thundered in his chest—and he didn't know if he did it for her benefit or his.

He held her, and reminded himself to breathe.

"For weeks afterward, I couldn't sleep without a light on," she said, so softly that he almost didn't hear her.

He slowly released her, pulling back so he could see her face.

"The darkness; it choked me. That first night, I think I only slept for a few minutes, and then when I woke, well, the blackness made me think..."

"What?" he asked, already dreading her response.

"I thought I was still trapped down there." The blanket slipped as she raised a hand to her throat. "The oxygen was running out, and I couldn't breathe. And I kept hearing Hodgins' screams."

Booth's jaw tightened at her admission, and he willed it to relax. This wasn't about him. This was for her. She must have picked up on his reaction anyway, no longer as oblivious to body language as she'd been when they began their partnership.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said, trying to keep the frustration he felt from coloring his voice.

"I don't think that's true, Booth. If I'm being honest with you, perhaps you could do me the courtesy of doing the same."

Booth couldn't really argue with her logic, but hearing her talk about her ordeal had already left him feeling raw and exposed. "I asked you to let me crash on your couch that night, Bones. But you wouldn't let me. You couldn't get me out of here fast enough. Why didn't you just let me stay?"

"I was tired, Booth, and I wanted to be alone."

He sighed and steepled his fingers, turning his head to look at her. "Did you really want to be alone, or did you just not want me to see you break down?"

"I didn't break down," she argued.

"Yeah?" He knew the word sounded like a challenge. "Did you cry after I left?"

"Well, I...Yes."

"For how long?"

"I don't know."

"Take a guess. Five minutes?"

She shook her head.

"Ten minutes?"

She shook her head again.

"Twenty minutes?"

No response at first. Then, finally, a nod.

"You sat here alone in your apartment and cried for twenty minutes after I left?" he asked, knowing that his voice had risen in volume and feeling helpless to stop it. He didn't wait for a response before continuing. "Why the hell didn't you call me, Bones?"

"Why would I?" Her confused expression sent his frustration soaring up a notch. "There's nothing wrong with crying. It helps rid the body of stress-induced chemicals. Human tears contain leucine-enkephalin, which affects pain sensation—"

"I'm not saying there's anything wrong with it. I'm asking you why you didn't call me if you were upset, which clearly, you were, if you cried for twenty minutes and then stayed awake all night," he said, gesturing with his hands.

"Again, why would I? I'm a grown woman, Booth. It's not your job to babysit me. Just because you've seen me upset a few times doesn't mean—"

"Come on. Upset a few times? Give me a break. You should have called me."

"I disagree."

Of course she disagreed. Nothing new about that. He huffed. "Bones, I was out there all night anyway."

"Out where?"

"Outside your apartment." He gritted his teeth as he recalled sitting in his car the entire night, with nothing but coffee to keep him company. He'd wanted to be inside her apartment, where he could hear her breathe and know she was finally safe.

"I don't understand—"

"No, clearly you don't." Booth rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve the tension that had settled there. "That night—after we found you and Hodgins—I parked my car outside your apartment and sat there. All night, Bones. I was out there all night. If you had just called—"

"Why? Why would you do that?"

He glared at the ceiling. Could she possibly be this dense? "Because I needed to do something for you, and that's all you would accept from me, damn it. Bones, you'd just spent twelve hours buried alive. For the sake of my sanity, I needed to be here in case you needed me." He raked a hand through his hair. "Obviously did a great job of that," he muttered. Taking a deep breath, Booth closed his eyes and counted to ten, trying to focus on her needs instead of his.

When he opened his eyes, he found her watching him with an odd expression on her face. "What?" He silently congratulated himself on the fact that he sounded calmer now.

"Thank you."

"Huh?" he asked, not trusting his ears.

"Thank you," she repeated.

"For what?" he asked, unable to keep the wonder out of his voice. Why had she stopped arguing with him?

"For staying, that night, in your car. For staying today, when you found out I was sick. For finding me and Hodgins. And, for listening."

For a moment, all he could do was blink at her and push back the emotions that bubbled up inside him and threatened to spill over. He hoped she couldn't see them on his face. When he recovered, he stretched out a hand and placed it on her forehead. "Has your fever gone up?"

"Oh, shut up, Booth." She shoved his hand aside and then sneezed.

"Bless you."

"I was attempting to say thank you."

He looked away, focusing his attention on one of the lamps. "Don't mention it. Did talking about it help?"

"I'm not sure," she said, cocking her head to the side, "but I think it did. I don't feel like I'm carrying around a secret anymore."

"Good," he said with a nod, thinking of his own secret. "I'm glad, Bones."

She sighed, and her lips quirked in a small smile. "You know, I am aware I don't have the easiest personality."

"Neither do I." He smiled back at her. "I once shot a clown head on an ice cream truck," he said conspiratorially.

Brennan's smile widened. "I know. As I recall, I was there."

"Huh," he said, tapping his chin. "I guess you were."

Her expression turned serious again. "I also know I don't accept help easily."

"Really?" He winked and flashed her a grin. "I hadn't noticed."

Brennan rolled her eyes.

He felt his smile disappear. "Thank you for trusting me."

She nodded. "You're welcome. I don't think there's anyone else I could have discussed this with."

Their eyes met and held, and Booth swallowed uneasily. "Look, Bones, there's something..."

Brennan's stomach growled loudly, breaking the moment. "What?"

"Never mind. It can wait." Booth stood, offering her his hand. "Come on. Let's eat."


	7. Hear me out

"I thought you didn't believe in the benefits of organic farming."

Booth pulled the two bowls of reheated vegetable soup out of the microwave and turned to look at Brennan.

Brennan tilted her head toward the paper grocery bag lying on her kitchen counter and quirked one eyebrow in question.

Shrugging, he said, "I don't. But you do."

"So what you're saying is that you shopped at Natural Sun because of me?"

"Yup." He paused to let the message sink in. "But I still say a carrot's a carrot."

She rewarded him with a twitch of her lips and an eye roll—just like he'd known she would. "Perhaps now would be a good time to remind you of that University of Florida study of alligators that swim in pesticide contaminated—"

"No thanks," he said, shuddering at the memory of that particular conversation. "Once was enough. Now," he said, walking out of the kitchen, "make yourself useful and grab a couple spoons."

* * *

Releasing a sigh that settled warmly in Booth's stomach, Brennan set down her spoon with a clink.

"You didn't finish your soup, Bones."

"I know," she said, resting her chin in her hand, "but I don't think I can eat anymore."

"You didn't like it?" The thought made him frown.

"Well, I can't really taste anything right now, but it felt very soothing."

"Good. You want anything else?"

"No, I'm quite satisfied at the moment." She eyed him silently for a moment. "I didn't realize you could cook."

"Of course I can cook. My mom taught me years ago." He wiped his mouth with his napkin. "She was always big on self-sufficiency."

"She sounds like a wise woman."

He nodded, and a slow smile spread across his face as he pondered what his mother would think of his partner. "Yeah, she is."

"Booth?" Her voice pulled him from his musings.

"Yeah?"

"What were you about to say earlier?"

Gazing at her across the table, Booth turned her question over in his mind and considered the many meals they'd shared over the course of their partnership. He knew if they ordered Thai, she would always be the one to finish the mee krob. He knew if he had a burger, she would always try to steal a couple of his fries—and he'd let her. He knew if he ordered apple pie, he could always coax her into having a bite—and he'd watch as she licked the crumbs from her lips.

He knew her.

It was his knowledge and her honesty that finally did him in.

Except when it came to matters of the heart, Brennan faced life head-on. If anything in the world scared her, it was feelings. But Booth had pushed her tonight, for her own good, he believed. A gift—that's what she'd given him by trusting him with her feelings. He knew her well enough to understand that. Maybe the time had come to trust her with his.

"It's been almost a year since you were kidnapped." He sat back in his chair. "A lot's happened since then."

"Yes, it certainly has."

"And reading your note, it made me realize something." He stared at the table and willed himself to continue—even though the words caught in his throat.

"What?"

"As terrified as I was about not finding you and Hodgins, if something happened to you now, it would be a hundred times worse."

"Why?"

"Because back then you were just my partner. Or at least that's what I thought," he amended. "But now..." He lifted his gaze to meet hers. "Listen, Bones, I want you to hear me out about something."

"All right."

Booth took a deep breath and forced himself to hold her gaze. "I've had other partners. I have other colleagues. The way I feel about them—that's not how I feel about you."

Her eyes widened and he swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I care about you. As more than a partner." Feeling his stomach clench, he twisted the napkin in his hands. "As more than a friend, even. And if you're open to it, I'd like to see where this could go."

For nearly a minute, she watched him in silence, her expression as calm and impassive as if she were examining a set of remains. Just when he was contemplating crawling underneath the table, she spoke. "You mean in a romantic sense."

"Yeah." He blew out a long breath and then nodded. "That's exactly what I mean."

"Booth..." She wiped her nose with a tissue.

"I'm sorry." He tossed the napkin on the table and scrubbed his hand over his mouth. "You're sick, and I know this isn't the best time to lay all this on you. But you were honest with me, and I want to be honest with you. I can't ignore this. I want to. Believe me, I want to, but I can't."

"What about the line?" Dark eyebrows drew together in confusion. "You're the one who said—"

Brain like a steel trap—that's what his partner had. Lucky for him. "I know what I said, but I think we crossed it about ten states back." With a shrug and a sigh, he shifted in his chair. "Look, there's theory"-he leaned forward and tapped his finger on the table-"and then there's the real world. In theory, you and I would just be partners. Nothing more, nothing less. But look at us." He gestured between them. "I hate to admit it, but Sweets is right—there is an emotional attachment between us. This thing—whatever it is—I think it's already there. When you said that we wouldn't even have coffee if we weren't partners, I...I didn't like that. And I don't think  _you_  liked the idea that our relationship could be boiled down to just coffee."

"Booth, I was simply objecting to what I believed was a gross oversimplification of our partnership."

"Deny it all you want, but I know there was more to it than that. I read people the way you read bones; that's a big part of my job, and I'm good at it."

"Without a doubt, you are very skilled at your job. I'm not questioning your competence. I'm questioning whether this is a good idea."

"Honestly, I don't know if it's a good idea. I just know I want to try. But you have to think about what you want." He sighed and stretched his legs out in front of him, searching for a way to make her understand. "Bones, listen—don't you ever want more than this?"

"More than what?"

"More than your job and your writing and..." He trailed off, waving his hands.

"I have everything I could possibly need, Booth. I'm fulfilled by my work and my writing. I have hobbies, and good friends, good colleagues..."

"But don't you ever get lonely? Don't you just need a little companionship sometimes?"

"Certainly."

"So is it that crazy to think you could have that with me?"

"I...I don't know."

"Never mind," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "Forget I asked you that. I don't want an answer right now. Just think about it. Take your time, and when you're ready to talk some more, let me know."

He folded his arms over his chest and waited to see if she would say anything else. She hadn't hit him or run out of the room; by those standards, he considered this a huge success. Maybe on some level she recognized that something had shifted between them. He sighed. Or maybe she was just too tired to do either of those things.

They sat quietly for several minutes, their breathing the only sound in the room.

"We're very different people," she finally said.

"We are different," he said, nodding. "But not so different. It's like Sweets said; we complement each other."

"So now you believe Sweets is worthy of your respect?" She arched an eyebrow in pure challenge; he couldn't resist grinning back.

"I wouldn't go that far."

"By your own admission, there are risks inherent in such a choice."

"Of course there are. Life is risky, Bones. Life isn't like your lab, where Zack and Hodgins can control the air pressure and humidity when they do their crazy experiments. It's imperfect and messy"-he pointed at her-"especially if you live it right."

"Can you guarantee that this wouldn't be a complete disaster?"

"No, I can't guarantee that. I can't guarantee that we'll be alive tomorrow, either. I can't guarantee anything. You and I both know that."

"Then you acknowledge how risky this would be?"

"Yeah, definitely. But you do risky things all the time. Didn't you tell me you once trekked through Tibet avoiding the Chinese army? I mean, you've taken on a gang leader. Those are tremendously risky things. Why not take a risk in your personal life?"

"That's different."

"I know it is. But only because you're more comfortable risking your life than your feelings. Doesn't mean you shouldn't consider it. Will you just think about it?" The please went unspoken; he had his pride.

"You're asking a lot, Booth."

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Yeah, I am. But I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was important. And on that note, I want to ask you something else, but I don't want you to answer me. Just think about it."

"You're full of questions today, Booth." The wry smile she flicked him brought an answering one to his lips.

"I guess I am. So here's my last one: Have you ever thought about, you know, kissing me?"

He watched her carefully, noting the flush that rose on her cheeks. Having made his point, he took pity on her and looked away for a second. "I want you to know something, regardless of what you decide: There are a lot of people I'd die for, Bones, but only a couple I live for. You're one of them." He leaned forward, willing her to look at him. "Remember that when you put together your list of pros and cons." Her gaze flew up to meet his, and he noted her startled expression. He smiled gently. "Come on," he chided. "Don't you think I know you at all, Bones?"

"If you know me, you know there's a strong possibility you won't like my answer."

"Yeah, I know that," he replied, feeling the bottom drop out of his stomach.

When she stifled a yawn and blew her nose, he knew there was nothing left to say—at least for the moment.

"Tired?"

"Surprisingly, yes."

"Not surprising; you're sick. Go to bed. I'll handle the dishes."

"Are you sure?"

That she didn't really argue told him how tired she really was. "Yes, I'm sure." He stood and gathered their bowls. "Now go," he said, making a shooing motion.

"You can sleep in the guest room," she said, pausing a few feet from him. "Good night, Booth,"

"Good night," he replied, meeting her gaze, and though his fingertips itched to brush her cheek, he let her move past him untouched.


	8. I'm standing here until you make me move

Long after Brennan went to bed, Booth sat slumped on her living room couch, idly flipping channels on the TV, only peripherally aware of the colors and images that flashed across the screen, his mind swirling with questions he couldn't answer. Had he said too much? Pushed too hard? Would she run? Could he catch her if she did?

Anxiety turned his stomach to lead as he pictured her sitting across the table from him wearing that calm, slightly bemused expression while he risked everything. He silently cursed himself for caring so much. Damn it, he didn't want to lose the closest thing he had to a best friend.

Sighing deeply, he dropped his head back and scrubbed a hand over his dry, tired eyes. Getting at the truth-that was his job. Hers, too. The truth mattered to Brennan; even when it was ugly or painful, she reached for it with both hands.

Sometimes not knowing hurt worse than finally, finally knowing. He'd seen it so many times-relief mixed in with the shock and the grief-when he told one more person his mother, father, wife, son, daughter would never come home again. Some days that felt like the worst part of his job. Some days it felt like the best. But every day he was aware it was part of his job.

All those years she'd spent wondering why her parents had left, wondering if they were dead or alive, wondering if they cared about her and her brother. Then she'd handed him the file that carried the shards of the girl she'd once been-and asked for his help. He understood what it had cost her to do that.

They weren't so different, under the surface. He never liked asking for help either-for the same reason he preferred not to sit with his back to a door.

So slowly he hadn't even realized it was happening at first, she handed him piece after jagged piece of herself, implicitly trusting him not to cut her with them. And despite his fear, he handed her the blade of Kosovo and left his back exposed. When he turned, she returned it to him sheathed, her gaze clear and unshadowed by judgment or disgust.

Then came the day he found Christine Brennan staring out at him from the Angelator, and her daughter staring at an old belt buckle, resignation carved into the hollows beneath her misty eyes.

_My name is Brennan. I'm Doctor... I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan._

He watched her mouth tremble with the weight of the lies and the half-truths and all the answers she so desperately wanted but might never have. Turning her face into his neck, she soaked his t-shirt with her tears, her breath hot and shuddering against his skin.

That was as close as she ever came to saying please.

The truth could have broken her, but it hadn't. She'd broken down, but she hadn't broken. Not when it came to her mother. Not when it came to her brother. Not when it came to her father.

Tonight he had told her the truth as he saw it; the rest lay in her hands. He didn't doubt her courage when it came to facing down physical threats. He just hoped, for both their sakes, that she could be as brave when the risks weren't bruises and broken bones.

Still, maybe it wasn't fair to expect her to reach for a truth even he had had difficulty accepting. Denial was a warm, comfortable place. He realized now that whether he accepted his feelings or not, they existed. What he felt for her, the things he wanted from her and for her, what he saw in her eyes when he looked at her-they all existed before he stumbled across her note, even though he hadn't been aware of them-and they would continue to exist regardless of her answer.

Exhausted by his thoughts, Booth switched off the TV, turned off the single light that still burned in the living room, and dragged himself down the hall. Unable to stop himself, he closed his eyes and carefully flattened his palm against Brennan's bedroom door. Shaking his head at his own idiotic behavior, he finally stepped back from the door and quietly retreated to the guest room.

* * *

The next morning, as Booth was nursing his second cup of coffee in an effort to feel more like a human being and less like roadkill, Brennan joined him on the couch. "Morning, Bones."

"Good morning, Booth." Her gaze swept over his face and paused at his hair, which he knew was a little worse for the wear after he'd battled his pillow for supremacy most of the night. Unfortunately, the pillow had come out on top. Not that he'd tell Brennan that.

"Would you quit staring at me like that?" he said, frowning and peering at her over the top of  _The Washington Post_ 's sports section.

"Did you sleep well?" she asked, her gaze flickering back to his hair.

"Actually," he said, narrowing his eyes, "I slept like shit." Scowling, he set down his coffee mug and brushed a hand through his hair.

"Me too."

Instantly, he sat up straighter. "Is your fever back? Are you feeling worse? I can-"

"Shh," she said, clapping a hand over his mouth. "That's not it." She removed her hand from his mouth. "I had trouble sleeping because, well, you were in the next room, and I couldn't stop thinking about our conversation."

He nodded and relaxed against the back of the couch. "Oh. I'm glad," he said, gratified by her honesty and relieved that he wasn't the only one who'd been too preoccupied to sleep. "Not that you couldn't sleep," he quickly added, "but that you were thinking about what I said."  _And hopefully about me._

"Yes," she said, tucking her legs beneath her and shooting him a sidelong glance.

"Yes, what?" he asked, wondering if he'd lost the thread of their conversation.

"Yes, I have thought about kissing you." Her lips curved in a small smile, and despite the abrupt change in topic, he nearly grinned back.

_How often? When? Where? Are we talking naked kissing?_ "Yeah?" Only sheer force of will helped him keep his tone casual. She didn't need to know that inside he was pumping his fist in celebration and doing his patented Seeley Booth victory dance. Some things were private.

"Mmhm," she murmured.

He didn't see any point in even pretending to read the paper now, so he tossed it on the empty spot next to him. "So now what?" he asked, hoping he didn't sound too eager.

"I've told you before that I'm an empiricist. That means I believe in what I can measure, see-"

"Bones, I'm not a complete moron," he said, interrupting her mid-sentence, "I know what an empiricist-" The words were cut off as Brennan leaned in. With one warm hand on his cheek and the other braced on his shoulder, she kissed him. Her lips were even softer than he'd imagined, (and God, had he imagined), and though she kept the kiss chaste and close-mouthed, when he inhaled he smelled minty toothpaste and rumpled, just-out-of-bed Bones. It didn't take more than a second for the message to flash from his brain downward. He wrapped an arm around her to pull her closer, but by then it was already over.

"-touch and taste," she said, completing her sentence, clearly winded because she couldn't breathe through her nose.

Booth opened his eyes to see her sitting back on her heels, one hand still resting on his shoulder.

"What the hell was that?" he asked, covering her hand with his and staring at her mouth.

"Data collection." Brennan licked her bottom lip and Booth squeezed her hand, wanting nothing more than to tug her onto his lap for a second kiss. "I needed more data before I made my decision. And now you have to go."

"What?" he asked, blinking rapidly as he struggled to focus on what she was saying instead of the way her mouth moved.

"You've given me a lot to think about, Booth," she said, slipping her hand out from underneath his, "and now I need some space to think."

"But you're still sick," he protested. "I don't want to leave you here by yourself. You know, it's not like I'm pressuring you for an answer right this minute."

"I know that," she said, smiling slightly. "And I appreciate your help. But Angela called to confirm our brunch date, and when she heard I was sick, she insisted on coming over."

He didn't want to go; an irrational part of him worried that once he left her, the things they'd both revealed and the fragile understanding he believed they shared, would pop like a soap bubble. But he knew she was right: she needed time and space to think and come to a decision they could hopefully both live with. "I'd be happy to give you a little more data before I go," he said, giving her a good-natured leer as he took in her flushed cheeks.

"Thank you, but that won't be necessary at this time," she said dryly, arching one eyebrow. It was only a small consolation, but at least she still looked as stunned as he felt.

"Do you promise to call me if you need anything?" he asked, dipping his head to look directly into her eyes. Giving in to the urge to touch her, Booth brushed a strand of hair off her shoulder and felt her shiver. No matter what she said, he knew there was something beyond friendship between them.

"I promise," she said with a nod. "But I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Ok. Do you want some breakfast before I go?" he said, feeling strangely reluctant to leave.

"No. Go."

"Geez, Bones, you're a terrible host," he complained, rising from the couch.

Smiling, she folded her arms over her chest. "I don't recall inviting you over."

"True enough, Bones. But admit it-it wasn't so bad having me around, was it?"

She didn't fire back an immediate response like he expected she would. Instead, she glanced up at him, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. "Surprisingly, no." Then her eyes lit suspiciously, and he almost bent to kiss her again. "I especially enjoyed storytime."

He snorted. "Pervert."

"Prude."

"Come here, and I'll show you how wrong you are," he said, smiling slowly.

"Go," she commanded, waving him away and ignoring his comment.

"Fine," he said with a shrug, walking away. "Your loss," he called out over his shoulder.

"Booth?"

The question in her voice stopped him, turned him back around.

"Did you mean it?" she asked, her eyes serious.

"Did I mean what, Bones?"

"Everything you said last night."

It was a simple question, but there was an underlying note of vulnerability in her voice that squeezed his heart and made him wish he could give her back every hug, every kind word, every normal family moment she'd missed out on during her years in the system.

But he couldn't.

So instead he settled for making sure all traces of laughter were gone from his face before he answered. "Every word, Bones," he said finally. "I meant every single word."

* * *

With his clothes, toothbrush, razor, and shaving cream stowed in his duffel bag, he could no longer delay leaving. He found Brennan still sitting in the living room, reading the newspaper. "I guess I'll head out now," he said, stuffing his free hand into his pocket.  _Change your mind; ask me to stay._

She rose and came toward him, stopping a few inches away. "I hate saying thank you."

"This I know," he said, unable to resist smirking.

"But I also know that I am thankful-for our friendship, that is." Brennan cleared her throat and ducked her head, looking so shy and so sweet that it was all he could to keep from pulling her into his arms.

"Me too," he said, and as much as he meant it, he really, really hoped he wouldn't have to hear one of those "Let's just be friends" speeches from her whenever she made her decision.

"It's important to me that you know that," she said, looking up from the floor. "No matter if we remain partners and friends or become something...else."

"I know."

"There's just one more thing, Booth." She edged toward the door, her stiff posture making him frown. "Unless we have a case, don't call me." She tucked her hair back behind her ear. "I need a few days. I'll call you."

Upon hearing those words, he tried to keep the worry out of his face, but he must have failed miserably because she quickly added, "Soon."

"All right, Bones. Take care of yourself. Drink lots of fluids, sleep-"

With a groan, she yanked open the front door and shoved him through it. "I have managed to survive thirty years without your medical advice, Booth."

"That's just dumb luck," he shot back, plastering a fake smile on his face to cover his discomfort.

Of course, given his terrible luck, Angela showed up just then. "Booth"-her gaze shot to the duffel bag slung over his shoulder and her eyes widened-"what are you doing here?" She turned to look at Brennan. "Bren, what's going on?"

"Hey, Angela," he said with a nod. He definitely wasn't in the mood for an Angela inquisition.

"Bones, be good," he said, backing away so he could see her face for just one more second. Her gaze lifted to his, and she smiled before stepping back into her apartment.

Finally he turned away, forcing his feet to move. "But I just got here," he heard Angela complain from behind him. He walked faster.

_To be continued..._

* * *

**A/N** : I want to say something funny, intelligent, or witty here, but my brain is empty, so I'll just settle for sincerity. I am completely in love with Booth and Brennan. (Well, as much as you can be in love with fictional characters.) ;) Their banter is a thing of beauty, and yes, I think they have strong physical chemistry. But it's the understanding, trust, and empathy they have for each other that gets me every time. Life is so fragile; they understand that.

And I am totally rambling, so I'm going to be quiet now. I hope you found something you enjoyed in this chapter.


	9. A thousand rainy days since we first me

**Chapter 9:** A thousand rainy days since we first met

Early morning light caught somewhere between white and gray seeped in through the half-open blinds, snaring his attention. Sighing, Booth turned to glare at his bedside clock. Usually, he floated to consciousness just before his alarm went off. Today it was 5:30 and he was already awake - too awake. A heavy feeling settled in his stomach; he swallowed and pillowed both hands beneath his head, staring up at the ceiling until his eyes went dry from not blinking.

Mondays typically weren't his favorite day of the week, and he had a feeling this one would suck even more than usual. When he'd left work on Friday, he'd had no idea what the weekend would bring. Even if he'd speculated, he couldn't have predicted that a desire to head to the diner for chocolate chip pancakes with his partner on a sunny Saturday morning would lead to him telling her she was one of the few people he lived for.

It had all happened so fast. Actually, no, it hadn't happened fast at all. "It" had been happening for a long time, hadn't it? He just hadn't admitted his feelings, even to himself, until that weekend.

Remembering Brennan's small smile as she stepped back inside her apartment, Booth winced. He was supposed to be done gambling, but here he'd gone and made a huge bet on Brennan and her feelings for him. He knew – he just knew – her feelings for him weren't any more platonic than his were for her. The kiss alone told him that. He also knew he'd never met a more stubborn woman than Temperance Brennan. If she decided she didn't want to get involved with him, and man, did that thought sting, that would be the end of that. She'd keep dating everyone but him, they'd keep solving crimes, and he'd try to pretend she was just another colleague.

When Seeley Booth crashed and burned, he did it with style.

_Better start buying some new socks and ties, Seeley._

Heaving a sigh, Booth gave up on falling back asleep. Throwing back his blanket, he climbed out of bed and prepared to face the day.

* * *

Around 3:00 on Tuesday, Booth trudged into the break room for his fifth cup of coffee. He'd had a bad night; thinking about Brennan had kept him up most of the night. Sweet caffeine truly was the only thing keeping him awake at the moment. Yawning, he grabbed the pot and filled his mug. After stirring in some half and half, he reached for two packets of sugar. Thinking better of it, he snagged a third. Sugar and coffee were the next best thing to a caffeine IV drip, he thought with a shrug.

Ripping the sugar packets open one after the other, he dumped them into his mug and gave a brisk stir, watching the steam rise and curl in the air. Taking a deep breath, he inhaled the comforting scent. He raised the mug for his first sip, already feeling a bit more alert.

"Agent Booth," a voice barked directly behind him.

Startled, Booth dropped the mug. It shattered – spilling hot, sweet, milky coffee all over the floor – and splashing a healthy amount on his pants. "Shit," he muttered.

"In my office. Now," Cullen said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. He scowled at Booth, his eyes narrowed. "And clean that up."

Booth's shoulders sagged. "Yes, sir." Stepping over the mess on the floor, he picked up a roll of paper towels and bent to wipe up the spill.

So much for coffee.

* * *

Wednesday limped by. Every time Booth's cell rang he snatched it up to check the caller ID. Every single person he knew seemed to call him that day. Everyone but the person he most wanted to hear from.

When a glance at his watch told him it was 8:00 PM, he set his cell on his desk and stared at it for a good five minutes, willing it to ring. Of course, nothing happened. Tired and hungry, he pushed back his chair and snapped up his suit jacket.

Sitting behind the wheel of his car, he realized he didn't know where to go. Wednesday nights usually found him having dinner at the diner with Brennan. Since he'd promised to give her plenty of space to make a decision about their future, that was totally out of the question.

At a loss, he drove toward the diner. D.C.'s lights winked as he rolled by. Usually the sight would have made him smile. Tonight it did nothing but remind him that his favorite forensic anthropologist didn't occupy the passenger seat.

The smell of frying food hit him as soon as he stepped inside the diner. Instead of increasing his hunger, it killed his appetite. He quickly left, the bell over the door tinkling upon his exit. Neither pizza nor Chinese nor Indian sounded appealing. He settled for going home and munching on a soggy bowl of cereal in front of the TV.

When he went to bed, he had no idea what he'd watched. The only thing he saw was Brennan shaking her head and laughing at something he'd said from across a table at the diner, the lab, Wong Foo's, and every other place that felt like theirs now.

* * *

Booth spent most of Thursday at the Bureau's Islamic cultural sensitivity training workshop, wondering why he wasn't out doing his job instead. Thankfully, the session finally ended around 5:00.

Jacobs stuck his head into Booth's office later that evening. Hanging off the doorjamb, he said, "We're heading out to Dooley's for a drink. You coming?"

"Not tonight, man." Booth nodded at the papers strewn across his desk. "Too much shit to catch up on. You go. Have one on me," he said, trying for a smile.

"You work too much," Jacobs said, shaking his head. Backing out of the doorway, he pointed a finger at Booth. "If you change your mind, I think we'll be down there for a while. Remember, it's Thursday – that hot blonde'll probably be there." He winked.

Booth shook his head and laughed. He knew exactly which blonde Jacobs was talking about. Legs to infinity and a rack to match; he just couldn't muster any interest at the moment. "Have fun."

"Later." Jacobs walked away, and Booth dropped his head into his hands. Totally whipped. Yup, he was totally, disgustingly whipped.

Booth waited till he saw most of the guys leave. Then he snuck out of the building.

Thursday night, and Brennan still hadn't called. No case, either, so he didn't have an excuse to see her. Thinking of her smile and the way she slipped her hair into that no-nonsense ponytail before she got down to work, he drove toward her apartment.

When he got there, he couldn't make himself go in. Yeah, he might be whipped, but she didn't need to know that. She didn't need to know that going four days without seeing her or at least hearing her voice made everything feel just slightly off. Instead, he idled outside for a few minutes. The lights at her place were off. Knowing her, she was still crouched over some bones at the lab.

With the rest of a long night yawning before him, Booth pulled away from the curb and drove to the gym. He hit the weights first – benching, chinning, and dipping until his upper body trembled with muscle fatigue. Then he jumped on a treadmill, upping both the incline and the speed. His feet pounded the machine with each step.

Sucking air into his lungs, he ran till he got a cramp in his calf. The treadmill shuddered to an abrupt halt when he yanked the emergency stop key. Chest heaving and shirt drenched through with sweat, he welcomed the burn in his calf; it meant he could finally focus on something besides the pretty, intelligent, and infuriating woman who'd grown to be more than his partner, more than a professional responsibility.

Maybe a man like him didn't deserve a woman like her: he still wanted her.

Unfortunately, the cramp in his calf faded. After he left the gym, showered and ate, Booth had another sleepless night. First his bed felt too cold, so he pulled out another blanket. Then it felt too hot, so he kicked off both blankets. He spent hours replaying the kiss in his mind. That didn't help.

Around 2:00 in the morning he surrendered to insomnia. Switching on his bedside lamp, he read the paper until he finally fell into a troubled sleep.

* * *

Friday passed quietly. Too quietly. Exhausted and irritated, Booth left the Hoover Building around 5:30. After a week that had inched by with excruciating slowness, he needed a beer. Maybe a couple.

When he stepped into the dimly lit interior of Wong Foo's, the tightness that had settled into his shoulders on Sunday and had yet to leave eased slightly. He slid off his jacket and loosened the knot in his tie. Sighing, he pulled out a stool at the bar. He tossed his jacket on the empty seat to his right before spotting Sid and raising his eyebrows at him in greeting.

Sid placed a beer in front of him. "Lady problems?" he asked, leaning his arms on the bar.

Booth laughed, but it sounded harsh, and not at all amused. He chose not to answer the question immediately. Instead, he raised the bottle to his lips and took a long draw. The cold beer slipped down his throat.

His initial thirst quenched, he put the bottle back down with a satisfied sigh and returned Sid's look. "That obvious, huh?" he asked, digging into the red bowl of peanuts Sid slid him.

Sid's gaze cut across Booth's face. "Only two things make a man look like that-women and sports."

Booth snorted a laugh. "What can I say?" He shrugged. "When you're right, you're right."

"Let me guess: the bone lady."

"How do you know that?"

"Come on, man." Sid shook his head and waved dismissively. "Aren't you in the FBI?" He leveled a serious glance at him. "That's easy. Dr. Brennan's the only woman I've seen come in here with you in at least a year, maybe more than that.

"We're partners."

"Sure."

"But she drives me crazy, you know?"

"That's what women do, G-man."

"Never stops talking. Argues with me about everything," Booth said, continuing as if Sid hadn't spoken. He took another pull of his beer. "Never lets anyone take care of her," he said.

"She let you take care of her?"

"Well"—Booth paused and considered Sid's question—"maybe. I guess as much as she lets anyone." In spite of himself, his lips quirked in a grin as he recalled making Brennan soup and reading to her from her porn collection.

"You've got it bad," Sid said, shaking his head.

"I know," he admitted. "And it's terrible 'cause she's not talking to me."

"What'd you do to set her off?"

"I told her how I felt. Now she's gotta make a decision," he said, making air quotes with his fingers. "Only problem is that she's been deciding for five days now." Frustrated, Booth rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

"That's tough, Booth."

"You're telling me." His cell rang, interrupting their conversation. Without checking the number, Booth pressed the answer button and lifted the phone to his ear. "This is Booth," he said, making no effort to hide his irritation.

"Where are you?" Brennan asked without any greeting.

"Oh. Hey, Bones." He automatically straightened on his stool. "I'm at Wong Foo's," he said, trying for casual.

"Would you mind coming over?"

"Everything OK?"

"Yes. Everything's fine." Two years of partnership had taught him to read every twitch of her lips and flicker of her eyes. For two years he'd put together an unofficial guide to Temperance Brennan. He'd never put it down on paper, but it existed anyway - in his heart and his head and his gut. She was Mona Lisa smiles and cool blue eyes that had seemed so opaque the first time she'd looked down her nose at him. With time, those eyes had lightened, gone nearly translucent so that he could see some of the secrets hidden beneath.

Now, though, she sounded calm, and he couldn't pull any other clues from her voice. Uncertainty tightened his chest, and he swallowed in response. The fact that five days had passed couldn't be a good thing. If he knew her, and he did, five days were more than enough for her to overanalyze everything and leave him the loser.

"Ok. I'll be there soon."

"Goodbye, Booth." She hung up then, leaving Booth staring down at his cell.

"That your bone lady?" Sid asked, polishing a glass with a white cloth.

Frowning, Booth looked up from his phone. "She's not my anything," he shot back.

"Whatever you say, G-man." Sid winked and flashed him a knowing grin.

Booth rolled his eyes and then tugged at his sleeves, folding them up and settling in to finish his beer. Sure, his heart might have backflipped into his throat when he heard her voice. But he'd be damned if he didn't make her sweat a little.

* * *

Ten minutes.

That's how long he sat in his car, eyes closed, with his head tipped back against the headrest.

He was acting like a twelve-year-old kid with his first real crush on a girl. Only he wasn't a kid, this wasn't a crush, and Brennan definitely wasn't a girl. No, his partner was all woman.

 _Pull it together, man._ He shook himself and got out of the car.

His knuckles had barely lifted from the door when the locks clicked. Brennan opened the door, greeting him with a smile. "Hi," she said.

"Hey." After five days of not seeing that smile, Booth wasn't prepared for the feeling that swept over him. It made him catch his breath.  _So much for not acting like a twelve-year-old._

She stepped back from the door, and he brushed past, stepping inside the apartment. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he waited for her to move ahead of him into the living room. He followed a few steps behind, trying not to notice how good she looked out of that blue labcoat and in jeans and a black sweater.

They sat across from each other - him on the couch and her on one of the chairs. Disappointment washed over him as he noticed the physical distance she'd put between them. He shoved it aside.

Unable to restrain himself any longer, he gave in and looked at Brennan, letting his gaze drift over her familiar face. The dark shadows under her eyes were gone. She looked healthy, well-rested. Unlike him.

Her nose was no longer pink and peeling. She looked… like his partner. She'd left her hair loose. He preferred it that way, though he'd never mentioned that to her.

She'd switched on a lot of lamps around them, but the light glowed softly. It made her hair gleam darkly against the paleness of her skin. Her hair looked wavy and touchable and if he could have had one wish at that moment, he'd have wished for the chance to slide his fingers over and through it.

Since God wasn't in the habit of granting his wishes, Booth slowly leaned back and slid his arm up on the backrest. He curled his fingers into the fabric. When he could wait no longer, he said, "You look like you feel better."

"I can't say the same about you," she said, her gaze lingering around his eyes. "You look as bad as I probably looked on Saturday."

"Gee, thanks, Bones." Booth shrugged and wiped a hand over his jaw. "Just a busy week, that's all," he said, the lie spilling easily from his lips even though Brennan probably saw through him as easily as he'd learned to see through her.

Her gaze sharpened. "You're lying to me, but I understand why."

"Bones," he said, but she cut him off.

"Please, Booth," she said, eyebrows raised. "Let me finish." Rising from her chair, she lifted a small box from the coffee table and came around to sit next to him. Shifting to face him, she handed him the box.

"What is this?" he asked, resting it in his lap.

She laced her fingers together before answering. "A gift." Dipping her head, she gave him a smile that was just a little shy around the edges.

His exhaustion and irritation vanished in the face of that smile. Because it reminded him she was his best friend. No matter what her answer, thinking and talking about feelings couldn't be easy for her. In fact, she pretty much hated it. It made her vulnerable, and if there was one thing she hated, it was being vulnerable. "You didn't have to do this," he said, touching her knee.

Her gaze flicked to his hand and then back to his face. "You gave me Jasper. You investigated my parents' disappearance. You saved my life." She shook her head, looking away. "I've never given you anything."

"That's not true." Moving closer, he lifted his hand from her knee and brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek.

Brennan didn't pull away, but she did glance down at the box. "Open it."

"Ok," he said, withdrawing his hand. Keeping his hands as steady as he could, he opened the box. The layer of tissue paper rustled as he parted it. A huge smile broke over his face as he pulled out a pair of black socks. One sock was covered in tiny angels, and the other had little red devils with pitchforks stitched all over it. "Bones, these are great. Thanks." He turned his head to look at her.

"You're welcome," she said, eyes dancing as she returned his smile. "They seemed like something you'd enjoy."

He nodded, still grinning. "They are. Definitely." He carefully folded the socks. She'd given him a present. She wouldn't do that if she were about to reject him, would she? With her, anything was possible.

Just as he moved to put the socks back in the box, Brennan spoke. "There's something else in the box."

"Oh." After setting the socks down next to him, he reached back into the box. Nestled inside the tissue paper was a small piece of paper. He pulled it out, and this time he couldn't keep the tremors from his hands as he recognized what he was holding. Heart thumping a beat too fast, he slowly unfolded it.

His eyes traced the smudged handwriting. Her goodbye note. The one she'd written when she and Hodgins were trapped underground.

He cleared his throat and met her gaze. "Why?" His voice came out scratchy and raw.

No longer smiling, Brennan looked back at him without flinching. "Because it's yours. It was always meant for you," she said, voice calm, and he wondered (hoped?) they were talking about something more than the note. "We're partners. Friends. I want you to know that I thought of you when...," she said, trailing off into silence. Her chest rose as she took a deep breath.

He gave her a moment, looking away to pull his wallet from his pocket. Carefully refolding the note, he tucked it into the plastic insert that held a picture of Parker.

"I'm sorry I made you wait for five days. I appreciate that must have been difficult for you."

"It's OK."

"You were very honest, Booth, despite how hard it must have been for you to risk being so open. These past few days - I tried to be as honest with myself as you were with me." With a deep sigh, she looked at the floor. "I needed time to think, and you gave me that."

"Like I said - not a problem. Look, it wasn't easy, but I wanted to give you space to really think about it."

"You give me so many things I don't even know how to ask for." She smiled, eyes soft and sad as she turned and looked at him again. "I'm not very good at this, Booth."

"Good at what?"

She gestured with one hand. "Emotions. And talking about them."

"You're doing fine," he said, and he meant it. The reassurance was meant for himself as much as it was meant for her.

"It's not easy for me, but the reason you gave for telling me about Kosovo, well, it lingered in my mind."

"I remember. I said I talked to you about it because I knew you wouldn't lie to me to make things easier."

"Yes. That... It meant a great deal to me that you see me that way."

"It's one of my favorite things about you, Bones."

"You mean there are others?" she said, slanting him a glance and the hint of a smile.

Booth snorted. "Quit fishing for another compliment." They shared a warm, easy look.

For a few moments, they sat in a comfortable silence. The urge to pull Brennan into his arms was strong, but he fought it, telling himself he had to be patient. He owed her that. Not everything could be forced.

Second by second, Booth let himself relax and simply enjoy being with this woman who meant more to him than he'd ever intended. Letting his gaze wander over the shelves and shelves of books in her living room, he thought about all the times they'd shared takeout and worked late into the night. How many times had he forced himself to leave and drive back to his quiet apartment, only to dream about her?

"After my parents disappeared and Russ took off, I missed knowing that someone cared where I was. Cared what I was doing," she said, drawing his attention back to her.

"I care," he said.

"I know," she said, nodding. Suddenly she smiled at him, eyes bright. "I did put together a list of pros and cons. However, there were an equal number of each, and I was surprised to find the list didn't particularly help. I also talked to Angela."

Booth groaned and covered his eyes. "Oh, God."

Brennan frowned. "She's my best friend, Booth."

"I know. I know." He sighed and waved his hand dismissively. "It's fine."

"Anyway, Angela told me to listen to my heart. I think I rolled my eyes when she said that." Brennan's lips twisted in a smirk. "But then she said something that actually did help: she told me to examine the evidence."

"And did you?"

"Yes, I did." Curling her legs underneath her, Brennan shifted, resting an elbow on the back of the couch. "You know, I'm a forensic anthropologist because every single one of those bones belongs to someone who mattered to someone else." She paused, looking directly at him. "For a significant part of my life, I wanted that – to simply matter to someone. Looking at the evidence, I can see I now have that.

"I thought about you sitting outside in your SUV all night. You asked me to let you stay that night. I refused. But you stayed anyway. For me. When I was sick, I begged you to leave. You stayed anyway. It's difficult for me to pinpoint when it happened, but you've become a safe place for me. Like Angela, only different. I… trust you. Every time I needed you, you were there."

Booth swallowed, unable to meet her eyes. "I wasn't there when that son of a bitch kidnapped you and Hodgins."

"No"—she reached out and placed her hand on his arm—"but you came for us all the same." Her thumb stroked his forearm; he shivered before he could stop himself. "I never hoped or expected that you'd be superhuman, Booth. It's irrational to expect that of anyone. Please; I need you to stop feeling guilty about that."

Startled, his gaze flew to her face.

"What? You think I don't realize how much guilt you carry around about our kidnapping? We don't discuss it often, but I'm aware of it nonetheless. Consider us even," she said, "you know all about my unorthodox family and my affinity for daffodils; I know about your guilt, about how hard you push yourself. Now, as your partner, I'm asking you to let it go."

"I don't know if I can do that," he said, giving her as much honesty as he could, "but if that's what you need, I'll try."

She nodded. "I suppose that's all I can ask," she said, moving her hand. It had only rested on his arm for a couple seconds, but he missed its presence already.

Sensing she had more to say, Booth stayed quiet. Waiting.

Brennan hugged her arms to her chest, and the protective gesture made his stomach tighten. "There's a Zen koan that says if you want to find something, you have to stop looking. I think… No, I know, that I wanted to belong somewhere. I wanted to matter to someone." The words halted as she flattened one hand against her chest. "And now I do. I examined the evidence, Booth; I matter to you. And not just to you. To Angela and Zack and Hodgins. Even to Dr. Saroyan. You – all of you – and the work that I do at the Jeffersonian – that's why I couldn't leave with Sully."

"I thought you couldn't leave because you weren't ready to live a purposeless life yet," he said, nearly shuddering at the memory of Sully and of those brutal sessions with Gordon Gordon.

"That was part of it, I think. It took me a long time to see, but that wasn't the only reason. But I don't want to talk about Sully right now."

"Good. Neither do I."

"In a rather circuitous fashion, what I'm trying to say is I wanted something, and I think maybe I've found it."

"What about the risks you were worried about?" Part of him screamed for him to just shut up and take whatever she offered. But another part, the same part that had made him tell her to live wide and sail away with Sully even though he would have missed her like hell, that part forced the words out of his mouth. This was too important. Their friendship, their partnership, her happiness – and his – they all mattered too damn much.

"You reminded me of the risks I already take. I'm not fearless; when I was in Tibet, and when I was in Guatemala, I was afraid." Brennan's chin lifted, her face shifting into stubborn lines. "But I did what I had to do regardless. Because I'm not a coward. I won't live my life in fear."

Strong and stubborn – that was Bones. Pretty as anything, too. Unable to hold back any longer, Booth reached for her, sliding his hands up to cradle her cheeks. "So you're saying you've been looking for me all this time?" He let his lips curve in a cocky grin, knowing it would get her back up immediately.

As expected, she narrowed her eyes before smiling a smile that nearly stopped his heart. "No, what I'm saying is that I wanted something, and you're part of what I found. Not all of it, but a significant part." She pushed her hair back from her face, and he thought about how brave she'd been. "I'm not ready to give it a name yet – what we are. And I don't know where this path will lead us. But I'm ready to explore it."

He glimpsed uncertainty and hope in her eyes, and it made him want her even more. Brushing his thumbs over her soft skin, Booth leaned in and pressed a kiss to Brennan's cheek. "Thank you, Bones." He silently vowed to do everything he could to make sure she never regretted her decision. Some things were outside their control, but that was a risk that came with living.

"Are you always going to settle for kissing me on the cheek unless I tell you I need to collect data?" she asked, cutting into his thoughts.

"What?" He froze, his mouth dropping open in realization. "Wait. Are you telling me you were awake when I...?"

One eyebrow rose. "Of course."

"I thought you were asleep."

"Yes, I realized that," she said, her lips twitching in amusement.

"Why didn't you say anything?" He remembered worrying that she'd sit up and punch him for kissing her on the cheek while she slept.

"I wanted to see how far you would go in molesting a sleeping woman." The smile she gave him took the sting out of her words.

"Molesting?" he shot back in mock outrage. "I'll show you molesting."

"Finally," she said, her breath misting against him as he inched closer. "I was getting tired of talking."

He laughed. Then his eyes fell shut a split-second before he kissed her, trying to show her without words what she meant to him. Their mouths moved together soft and slow, and Booth wondered how he'd survived so long without this.

When he inhaled, he smelled her.  _Bones._ Spicy, like that damned bodywash he'd found in her bathroom. Maybe a little sweet. Familiar and perfect and almost unbearably hot.

His body tightened at her closeness. Excitement zinged through him as he tasted her again and again. She moaned, her fingers kneading his shoulders. The sound lodged deep inside him. He'd known she'd be like this – greedy and open and as hungry as he was. Everything he hadn't known he wanted.

Moving his hand from her cheek, he slid his fingers into her hair liked he'd wanted to as she'd watched him from across the space that separated them. Pulling away, he pressed open-mouthed kisses to her throat until she moaned again. He smiled against her skin and then gave a light nip. He felt her hands leave his shoulders and tunnel through his hair. Too soon, she tugged, pulling him up to look at her.

"It won't be easy, you know," she said, sounding breathless. "I work a lot; my job is very important to me-"

"Like I hadn't noticed that. And just so you know, mine's important to me," he said, unable to resist interrupting even as his hand continued on its merry way, cupping Brennan through her sweater.

"—And we do meaningful work," she said, arching into his hand and yanking at his shirt. "We'll have to be careful to… Stop that," she said as he skimmed his hand over her bare back. "Booth, you're not listening."

With great effort, he retreated and sat up. He didn't move very far, though. Lifting Brennan's hand, he kissed her palm. "Now I am."

"As I was saying, we'll have to conduct ourselves in a manner that won't compromise our careers or the cases we handle. But we're professionals. If we need to discuss things with Cullen…" Even though she continued talking, he couldn't make out what she was saying. As his gaze slipped over her face and further down, his attention wandered, finally focusing on her flushed cheeks, just-kissed lips, and the modest v-neck of her sweater.

God only knew what she wore underneath.

Her words finally penetrated the fog in his brain. "If you don't stop staring at my breasts right now, I promise I will never let you see them."

That had him looking up at her pretty quickly. "Aww, Bones, that's just cruel." He stuck out his lower lip. "If you only knew what my week's been like."

Leaning forward, she stroked a finger over his cheek and then stood up, tugging at the bottom of her sweater. Flashing him a smile that _almost_  made him feel like it was OK how totally whipped he was when it came to her, she said, "You can tell me about it in the kitchen. I'm starving."

"We could just order in."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I believe I owe you a meal."

"You do?" he asked.

"Yes. You wanted chocolate chip pancakes last weekend, remember? But you never got them because you stayed and annoyed me instead."

"Oh yeah. I guess you're right. Must be my lucky day then."

"Seems like it," she said. "But don't get used to it."

"Too late, Bones," he said, standing and pulling her tight against him. "I already am." Brushing her hair back from her face, he kissed her again, swallowing her quiet laugh.

Looked like it just might be a lucky day for them both.

_The End_

**Author Note:**

First of all, thank you very much to everyone who's commented on or simply lurked and read this story. I hope this last chapter didn't disappoint. Even if it did, I would still be interested in hearing what you thought. I am perpetually behind on responding to comments, but I try to do my best to reply to them all in time. If you commented or email med and haven't heard back from me yet, I promise I'm not ignoring you.

Second, I send my apologies to everyone who read #55 in  _All That Lies Between Us_. Hopefully it amused some of you. It was April Fool's Day, and I felt a bit puckish. ;) That was definitely NOT the story of my heart. If I have one of those, it's probably  _Come Undone._

I need to reference two things that are mentioned in this chapter. The Zen koan that Brennan mentions to Booth was pulled from 1x14:  _The Man on the Fairway_. The exact quote is, "There's a Zen koan: it says that if you want to find something, you have to stop looking."

Brennan's line has stuck with me since I first heard it way back in Season 1. I filed it away in a random document, just waiting for the day I could use it.

In 1x22:  _The Woman in Limbo_ , Brennan tells Angela that after her parents and Russ left, she missed having someone care where she was. I referred to that in this chapter, too.

Lastly, I want to address the issue of Angela and Brennan's conversation. In comments on the last chapter, some people mentioned being curious about their talk. But I challenged myself to write this story  **entirely**  from Booth's point of view, so if you're wondering why a direct, word by word replay of that talk isn't shown here, that's why.

Again, I sincerely hope you had fun with this story, and if you have a minute, I would love to get your feedback. If anything seems unclear or you have any questions, just let me know. Thanks for reading.

On to the next story!

* * *

**Chapter title sources:**

Chapter 1: Give me pancakes (My brain)

Chapter 2: Every time she sneezes (Counting Crows - Anna Begins) (To me,  _Unwell_ is this song.)

Chapter 3: Leave me paralyzed (The Notwist - Consequence)

Chapter 5: Dare you to move (Switchfoot - Dare You to Move)

Chapter 6: With you, there's no easy answer (Poe - Amazed)

Chapter 7: Hear me out (Frou Frou - Hear Me Out)

Chapter 8: I'm standing here until you make me move (Lifehouse - Hanging By a Moment)

Chapter 9: A thousand rainy days since we first met (The Police - Every Little Thing She Does is Magic)


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